


before they convinced you life is war

by EclipseWing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mutants, Canon turned AU, Don't copy to another site, M/M, Mid-Battle of Hogwarts, Reincarnation, memory problems, mutations, powers include mind control and empathic manipulation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2019-10-16 02:51:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 71,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17541269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EclipseWing/pseuds/EclipseWing
Summary: Harry's got the Imperius Curse tripping off his tongue and Tom's suddenly acutely aware of other people's emotions.





	1. words like cracking glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Go check out 'that one mutant romance' series, very inspirational for me to give the trope a try.]
> 
> Just a kind of prologue to see what people think, I've got more planned if there's interest.

_“Do you remember, Harry Potter? Do you know where you come from? Where you are going?”_

Harry is a freak. That’s nothing new. He strives for normality and it flees from him like scurrying clouds running endlessly across the sky.

A fan whirls around in the humid room. A note pinned to the wall flutters in the breeze everytime it passes. The air is listless otherwise, with droopy eyes and languid limbs enwrapped around him. The fan spins and the notice curls up once more.

He picks at a scab over one elbow. He can’t remember what it was from. His nail catches the flap of skin and slides over it. It’s soothing.

The poster flutters.  _Mutant re-education_ it reads as it breathes in time with the whirring fan. A different word for the same thing. Mutant. Freak.  _Magic_.

Except magic didn’t exist in this reality. Just Harry and his scrawny underfed teenage body, scabs from old scars healing over his elbow and glasses hanging lopsided off his face.

“Mr Potter?”

The fan spins. The poster whirls. She stands in the doorway, still dressed in baby pinks as if she thinks it’s cute. As if she’s a little girl with soft features and wide eyes, staring innocently at the world. Dolores Umbridge is anything but innocent.

With a face that looks like she ran into a wall, she simpers at him. Tone a pitch too high, she clears her throat and holds her door open like condemnation. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Mr Potter. I trust we’ll be getting to know each other during our meetings. I hear you’ve been a very naughty boy.”

He’s fourteen not five. He’s not an idiot. Even if he didn’t dream of a castle and magic and a Dark Lord trying to kill him he would think her stupid. That’s all she is really; a pandering pink-clad fool. His hand clenches for a wand that isn’t there and he settles for curling into the seat and trying to make himself as small as possible. He rubs at the back of his hand.

It’s unscarred. He can’t remember what’s meant to be there, only that something is.

A naughty boy. She sounds like Vernon and Petunia. She calls him ‘Mr Potter’ instead of ‘Boy’ or ‘Freak’ or ‘Mutant’ but the amount of disgust and derision shoved into the name is the same. Her words are patronising and condescending and revulsion crawls it’s way up his throat. He picks a new scar into the back of his left hand.

The office is dressed in pink too. He twists to look for the cat pictures he knows are there. They’re eerily still, frozen mid mew. He waits a heartbeat for something to happen.

Nothing does.

“Oh dear,” she says, as she finishes going through his files, “What are we going to do with you, Mr Potter?”

“Do you believe in magic?” he asks her, a question for a question and he waits for the recognition, for the ghost of the awful woman he had known to make an appearance...

But all she does is laugh, clasping her hands in front of her on the desk, “Do you think you’re some sort of witch, Potter? This isn’t fairytale,” she breaks it to him almost gently, almost kindly if it wasn’t for the way her voice twists into a laugh as sweet as sugar-coated lemon rind. “You’re not a wizard, you’re a filthy mutant. And I’m here to make you better.”

Make you better, she tells him, as if he’s  _ill_. As if there’s a  _cure_.

(“Just like my filthy sister,” Petunia had sneered at him, “And that boy of hers with his smoke and tricks. A  _freak_.”)

Petunia hated him because he has magic. Petunia hated him because he is a mutant. Worlds blur and shift and Umbridge smiles down at him and it’s not a  _nice_ smile. He recognises it, it’s the same smile she gave him with the quill, the same when she had been about to curse him and he’s never met her before but he knows what she’s going to do before she does it.

It’s like a spot the difference taken to the extreme. Overlapping images that are totally different except for a few fixed points. Human brains aren’t meant to comprehend entire lifetimes shoved on top of each other like a jenga tower filled with holes all ready to come tumbling down.

“We’ll try this for a few days,” she says, “See how you feel then after no food or voice. You understand this is for your own good, right?”

The mask is metal. Electricity hums under the surface. It leaves his nose free, covers his mouth. It looks like some sort of archaic torture device. Or some odd bondage gear. It chokes his words and tongue. Hunger is a dead bone in his stomach being gnawed raw. Not unusual; Vernon and Petunia don’t like him enough in either world.

Dead parents, he sees in his file as Umbridge slams it closed. Car crash or dark wizard, he wonders, he’ll probably never know. Dead, always dead, a kaleidoscopic mirror and everything’s the same same same except this.

Cold metal wrapped around his jaw and extinguishing his words, his tongue, his voice. It  _hurts_ , wraps around something inside him and chokes it out of existence.

*

 _Dying is easy_ , Sirius tells him, and he’s right. It’s the easiest thing Harry has ever done. Had he known it would be this easier he would have stop fighting  _years_ ago.

And then? Then he comes back.

Maybe it’s all his fault. He distinctly remembers thinking  _this could have turned out so much better_ in between all the fighting and dying. Was it him with the resurrection stone pressing imprints into his flesh, a cloak around his neck and a wand of elder in his hand?

He can’t remember.

Ron’s hair windswept and illuminated by spellfire. The whirl of Hermione’s robes on Hogwarts’ stairs. A flash of a sword in Neville’s hands. Ruby red eyes in a serpentine’s face and genuine fear in Voldemort’s face.

The events are there, but not in order. Harry was dead and then he wasn’t. There was a battle and then there wasn’t.

There was magic,  _so much magic_ Harry had thought he would drown in it, and then there wasn’t, just a power settling at the base of his spine and half-forgotten dreams drifting off with the wind.

*

They take the mask off after a week. They put something in his food afterwards that makes the whole world seem hazy. Like he’s trying to watch a 3D movie without the glasses, everything is just slightly off. Images overlap, memories roll in his head and reality shifts.

“Do you remember?” a girl in the cafeteria asks. She watches him choke down food like he’s afraid it will be taken away from him once more. “Do you  _see_?”

“Shut up,” one of the guards snaps at them.

She remains staring at him with wide blue blue periwinkle eyes. Her long blonde hair is drab and dull. He stares at her, “It’s not real, Lovegood,” he whispers back.

“Isn’t it?” she asks with just a hint of a challenge, a little less question and little more gauntlet being thrown into the ring. The polished metal reflects his surroundings and he sees spellfire and a shining tiara and a castle  _burning_. “Do you dream, Harry Potter?” she asks, in that tone that is just quintessential   _Luna_ it makes a part of his heart ache.

He’s never met this girl.

“Don’t hang out with him, Lovegood,” one of the other children hisses as they walk past, “He’s a _murderer_.”

“Nah, let them hang out together, she’s crazy anyway.”

“Do I know you?” he asks her.

She tilts her head, smile content. She reminds him of Alice, in her own personal wonderland, long blonde hair trailing down her back washed out like limp seaweed. It drapes over her thing bony shoulders like those of death’s horses. “I don’t know. Do you?”

Her eyes are like chips of sky shattered into a human body and they see much too  _far_ too--

It hurts.

“Yes,” he says, and pushes his tray away. He’s not hungry anymore, and his head hurts. He rubs at a scar that isn’t there and his thoughts feel muffled. He walks away, leaving her sitting there looking so small and frail and aged twelve not sixteen but he sees her thin form in a dungeon cold and alone and--

His head hurts.

 _“Do you remember, Harry Potter_?”

Of course he remembers, he thinks as his worlds fold together; imperfect silhouettes until he can’t hope to work out what he’s seeing.

Of course he remembers.

That’s the problem.

*

Luna’s soft and comforting. His only friend in the place and she looks at him with total and complete understanding, like she can see into his soul.

Maybe she can; he doesn’t ask her mutation. She’d always been able to see far more than normal people anyway.

One of the boys complains about him and the mask goes back on. When it comes off after three days he’s shaking; he can’t stop his hands from trembling. Whatever they put in his food they up the dose. Everything feels flat; like paper cutouts.

Maybe this is the world that’s not real, he thinks, as he curls up next to Luna who is making a necklace of leftover pencil stubs. “Do you think the others are okay?” she asks.

“They’re dead,” he says.

“So were you,” she says, “Are you dead, Harry Potter?”

_Who are you, Harry Potter?_

“Luna, they’re not  _here_ ,” he says, harshly, “They’re not…  _they’re gone_. Don’t-don’t  _confuse_ this world and that, they’re  _not the same_.”

“It is when it counts,” she insists.

“Then they’re dead,” he snaps, words cruel and an icy snow blizzards slamming into her slight form. She shivers just a little but persists.

“They’re not,” she insists, “Not here, Harry, please listen to me--” she holds out the drawings, and they’re all of that wrong time wrong  _world_. Hermione in the Gryffindor Common Room, Ron at the Burrow in dress robes at the wedding and Ginny in her Quidditch Uniform. There are little chain links drawn around their names, small triangles and--

A hand shoots out and snatches the pictures up. “And what…” Umbridge’s words are thin ice already cracking, “What are these? Miss Lovegood; are you not aware that using your powers could result in severe…” she almost savours the word,  _“Consequences_.”

Luna stares, twelve and a little girl, and Harry always has to play the hero. “No,” he straightens, “No, it wasn’t her, it was me, I  _made_ her--”

For a moment her attention wavers. He thinks she’s going to take Luna away anyway, but she falls for the bait. She’d never been able to resist attacking him, smearing his name through the muck and the dirt. “I’m very disappointed in you - we had been making such progress.”

He doesn’t say anything, presses his lips together in a thin line and waits for the detention.

“Come with me,” she instructs, “I think it’s probably about time you realise the true severity of your actions and what they could mean for you. If we can’t train this awful nonsense out of you--” she leaves the threat hanging like a noose in the air. With every step Harry takes he feels it tighten a little more.

He glances back once; sees Luna sitting there alone, and then Umbridge is grabbing onto his arm to speed him up.

She drags him into what isn’t her office, there’s no way, it’s not pink enough. She drops him in a heap on the floor. There’s someone else in the room who pauses what he’s doing, “Get back to work,” she snaps at him, “I’ve brought you company.”

The boy is about the same age as him with dark hair. He’s sitting in the corner of the room, pen in hand racing across the paper. His head is ducked, but there’s something not cowed about the way he sits. It’s respectful, but borderlining on being patronising. Like a mockery of obedience, biding its time.

Umbridge turns to him with a sinister smile plastered pleasingly across her face, “Ignore him. I’ve got a little project for you, you’ll just love it. I’ve got these for you to sort out. Just sit there, that’s it, good boy...” she talks to him like a pet, as she watches him sit on the floor amongst piles of paperwork. He doesn’t see how this is a punishment. Not initially. It’s just paperwork--

It’s not paperwork. It’s records. Records of mutants.

The ones that had already passed through the facility. The ones that were no longer here because they were…

They were…

“They all got what was coming to them. Think of it as a warning, Mr Potter. You can’t win.”

The words he reads rattle around his head. The red stamps on the files seem awfully final. Dead dead _dead--_

 _I must not tell lies,_ he thinks, and he doesn’t know where the words come from for a moment.

“I always knew it was my duty to help purify the population of mutants. They ruined my family, killed my father and tried to kill me when I was little… it was only natural to choose it as a career path.”

Harry drops the folder into a pile. Picks up the next one. Sees the words swim, feels helplessness well up and her voice grates over him...

_I must not tell lies._

Her voice catches on something, words like cracking glass.

“They’re so close to a cure, and soon you will be freed from the crimes of your filthy species…”

The cracks spread fine hairline fractures--

_I must not tell lies._

The folder slips from his hand as he stands.

“Mr Potter, what are you doing? Get back to work, there’s an awful lot to sort through--”

Warm power curls at the base of his spine, crawling up it with creeping tendrils like reaching ivy. It feels a bit like magic, almost.  _It’s the same where it counts_ , Luna whispers in his head, and she’s right, of course.

Magic is gone but he is still  _gifted_ , he is still  _special_. And he can  _use that_.

“ _Don’t lie_ ,” it slips out, voice like dry ice. “  _Tell the truth._ ” His power like sharp spice coats his tongue. His temper had always been a terrifying thing; not even Ron or Hermione dared argue half the time. In the corner her assistant just freezes. Umbridge bristles indignantly, face going steadily red with anger and the words…

The words just  _pour_ out. “Why? You want to know that my father was a filthy mutant? That my mother was well rid of him when she left him with my brother and I? That he dared to pass on his filthy genetics to me? But I’m good. I don’t use my freak abilities and if I can learn how not to use then, then you, Mr Potter, can do the same--”

There is click as her jaw snaps shut. Her eyes are wide and bulging out of her toad-like face. Harry stumbles backwards, realisation creeping over him.

“You  _dare_ ,” she says, taking control of her own voice from him, “You filthy mutant  _freak_ , you  _dare_ use your abhorrence on me  _?_ ”

It’s like the  _Imperius_ he thinks with horror, he completely takes away their will. He takes another slow step backwards, because she’ll punish him now. He’ll be in the cupboard for  _days_ \--

Wrong world  _wrong world_ he thinks, and dreams blur into reality.

“I will make you regret it,” Umbridge says, slowly and carefully rolling up her sleeves, “And if we have to use…  _extreme_ measures, then so be it. What the authorities aren’t aware of…”

The look in her eyes is gleeful. It’s the same look he had seen as she prepared to cast the cruciatus curse and whatever she has planned will not be nice. It will be the mask again, he thinks with horror, the mask or the cruciatus or--

 _No_.

“You’re ill,” she says, sickly sweet, “Sick, but it’s okay. They’re working on a cure but for now? I can make you better, can’t you see I’m just trying to help--”

The images of Umbridge as a Professor and here as a Re-Educator blur and overlap and it’s different, but it’s the  _same_ and like a dragon that has been sleeping in the undergrounds of Gringotts his anger opens one feral golden eye.

“Didn’t anyone,” the words claw their way out of his throat, the dragon tearing out from between his ribs to lie like some bleeding creature on the ground, “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that you must not tell lies?”

Her eyes narrow, and she reaches out. Harry grasps for a wand that isn’t there, he’s defenceless except…

No. No, he’s never going to be defenceless again.

“This won’t hurt,” she’s saying, having scooped up that thrice cursed mask that binds his tongue.

“ _Don’t lie_ ,  _don’t move, shut up_ ,” he says, feeling the power in his words. It’s bittersweet; dark chocolate on his tongue, “  _Pick up that pencil.”_

He watches her throat bulge. Her fingers twitch. She tries to fight but Harry’s will is stronger. An almost glaze covers her eyes as she reaches for a mechanical pencil on the desk.

“ _Now you’re going to write,”_ he says, vindictively,  _“I must not tell lies_.”

She reaches for the desk and paper and a laugh that is war torn and scarred echos in the room.

“Why waste paper?” he asks, “ _Write it on your skin. And don’t stop until it sinks in_.”

It’s a thrill. A heady, rush, like flying except he hasn’t left the ground. The power coils and purrs in him, and Dolores Umbridge takes the pencil and starts to write. The thin lead of the mechanical pencil snaps quickly. Soon she’s digging metal against her skin. Over and over and over and--

It isn’t long before it begins to bleed.

" _Keep carving it,_ " he instructs, dispassionately. He’s watching events play out like a movie, watching Umbridge get her due. After all, this isn’t real. This world is nothing but paper cutouts and he deserves this, at least, to rip her silhouette into shreds. "I don't think the message has sunk in quite yet."

Movement and Harry whirls around, but it’s only Umbridge’s assistant, the teenage boy, standing up. Harry had forgotten about him, and he opens his mouth to make the other forget, keep his mouth shut, he’s not sure, he gets distracted by the way the boy is gazing with  _glee_ at Umbridge’s quivering form. “That was truly beautiful. I didn’t think you had it in you, Potter.”

The world snaps into focus in a way it hasn’t before. It’s as if everything had been out of focus before. It’s with almost condemnation and resignation that he looks up to meet the dark satisfied gaze of Tom Riddle.

 _This is real_ , he realises with a sudden, mind-numbing horror.


	2. short second life

The world crashes down around him with Tom Riddle smiling at him and a pool of blood at his feet. He stumbles backwards, he’s going to be sick, he’s going to be so  _ sick _ , oh  _ Merlin _ , he was  _ torturing Umbridge _ \--

“Oh  _ god _ ,” he chokes out, hysteria rising in his throat because where are their gods? They are the gods, he thinks, they are the gods now. This is his divine intervention.

_ She deserved it,  _ he thinks, with that same detachedness that has haunted this life.

“Oh, don’t get  _ moral _ on me now, I was enjoying the show,” Riddle says, not moving from where he has taken up position leaning against the desk. He is…

He is  _ not _ Voldemort.

“Tom Riddle?” Harry asks, staring at him. The boy looks Harry’s age. Pale skin, dark eyes, an incessant curl to his hair he can’t quite get rid of. A twitch of his lips at the name in distaste that he can’t quite hide.  _ “Voldemort _ ,” Harry repeats and Riddle looks almost satisfied, especially as Harry puts another metre between them.

“Harry Potter,” Riddle practically  _ molests _ his name, “I do always enjoy meeting you.”

“Do you.” It’s not even a question, Harry can’t muster the energy to put the inflection on the end, “You usually end up trying to kill me.” He does a double-take, because is he exchanging  _ banter _ with the man, “What the hell?” he says, to nobody in particular, “You’re  _ fourteen _ .”

“Sixteen.”

“You’re meant to be  _ seventy _ , not  _ sixteen _ , what the  _ hell _ ?”

“If I knew,” Riddle looks impatient now, “If I knew I wouldn’t exactly be here, would I?”

Here, Harry realises, working as Umbridge’s assistant, in a mutant re-education facility. Riddle is a mutant,  _ of course he’s a mutant _ , all magical people are mutants in this reality. In this reality--

This is reality, Harry realises, numbly, this is his world. “What happened?” he asks, because Riddle isn’t the only one who is the wrong age; Harry’s a fucking  _ kid  _ again. “Hogwarts… the Battle… that happened, right?”

Riddle’s lips press together in a thin line. His nod is slow, like he’s mulling the question over, “You remember,” he states, “Although you look like they’ve got you on something or other. I haven’t met anyone else who remembers. Darling Dolores apparently didn’t.”

Harry doesn’t really have a response for that. All it served to do was draw his attention to where Umbridge is still carving words into her flesh.  _ I must not tell lies _ . Harry remembers it on his own skin, there is something satisfying about seeing it on hers. “Stop that,” he says, she’s nicked an artery or vein because the blood trickling out isn’t stopping, “Stop--” he takes a breath,  _ “Stop.” _

The pencil falls from shaking hands. Her eyes are wide, indignation and fury giving away to fear as she looks at him, still a puppet to his commands. He’s aware of Riddle still standing there, not daring to do anything. Harry could kill Voldemort, he realises with startingling clarity, he could kill Voldemort without raising a hand - he just needs his words--

There is blood drip drip dripping onto the floor and Harry  _ can’t _ . No matter how much he physically wants to, he can’t. Riddle is staring at the dripping blood with fascination, “Not so golden now, are you, hero?” and Umbridge is one the floor  _ bleeding _ and they’ll cut out his tongue for this; they’ll tear his vocal cords to shreds if they don’t put a bullet straight through his brain. He’ll be hunted like a  _ dog _ \--

He’s so busy trying to control his breathing, trying not to hyperventilate that he misses Umbridge moving, reaching out. Riddle doesn’t, but he’s still halfway across the room and his frantic jerk forwards is for naught. “Potter--”

Umbridge’s pudgy fingers find a switch and press down.

Somewhere, somehow, an alarm  _ wails _ .

“Shit,” Riddle freezes, eyes widening with horror.

“You’ll get what you deserve now, Potter,” Umbridge says with gleeful, dry-cracked lips. Vernon leers at him in his memories,  _ they’ll expell you now _ , and in the distance Marge Dursley is floating away and--

The door bursts open, guards there, and Riddle’s back across the room as far away as possible staring at him with brown-brown eyes ( _ weren’t they red)  _  and Umbridge is a bloody mess at his feet and the world is spinning around him.

There is the sharp scent of blood in the air. An urgency; he has to get out of there, he has to  _ leave _ \--

But the needle sinks in and his vision blurs until all he can see is Riddle’s not-red eyes and all he can taste is the remnants of almonds on his tongue.

Like cyanide.

*

The block they put Harry in is cold. Cold brick walls, cold tiled floors, cold white and grey staring at him from every direction. His mind swims in a haze of drugs. This is irony at its finest, he thinks as he tries to fight the battle with the fuzziness clouding his thoughts. It’s like he’s trying to throw off the Imperius Curse - is this what his victims feel like when his words slip in like slick-sick oil?

But drugs are not magic, and the closest thing Harry will get to the Imperius Curse in this life are the words tripping off his tongue.

“What the bleedin’ hell do they have you on?”

The voice is familiar, accent slightly blurred and young,  _ so much younger _ than he hears in his nightmares. His fingers claw weakly at the stone floor and he looks up to where the dark-haired boy stands by the bars in the door.

_ Bars on his window - cat-flap in the door - it’s nothing new _ .

He glares, as if he could kill Riddle by the force of his emotions alone. The handsome boy either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, whole posture shifty as he glances over his shoulder and back to Harry and then there’s the distinct sound of a key in the lock.

The door creaks as Riddle slips in, closing it behind him and standing, door handle pressed against his back as he eyes up where Harry’s in a messy heap on the floor, “Look at  _ you _ ,” he crows, “The Boy-Who-Wouldn’t-Die, brought so low by  _ muggles _ .”

Harry would probably spit back an answer or insult were he not gagged. This is, Harry thinks in a daze, a real tragedy. He has so many retorts all ready and waiting to go.

And isn’t it just  _ weird _ seeing the man who had terrorised his life looking like a school boy, clothes slightly too big for him and still a hint of childhood roundness to his face. He looks soft. Younger than the version Harry had seen in the Chamber, no harsh features or coldness to his face yet. His eyes are not the colour of the disarming charm - instead they’re an almost warm brown.

“I mean, they’re not really  _ muggles _ ,” Riddle appears unaware of Harry’s mental assessment of him, “ _ Mundanes _ , isn’t that the term they use? I’m not sure, they kicked me out of the orphanage as soon as they could before I really had much chance to remember anything useful. But that’s how it works here, right? Mutant and Mundane? Magical and Muggle? Same thing, different world.”

Harry wants to stand, to confront the boy but his whole body feels shaky. His world still feels distorted and he’s still half-convinced the floor is going to shatter beneath him and he’ll start falling falling falling and wake up in that too-white station or dark dark forest or--

“Don’t matter,” Riddle shrugs, “We’re mutants and they’ll kill us for it, eventually. They’ll certainly kill you--” brown eyes rake over Harry’s form, “So I have a proposal, Potter.”

_ Fuck you _ , Harry thinks as hard as possible.

Riddle clicks his tongue, disapproving, “Don’t look at me like that, Harry. I know we’ve had our… differences, in the past. But I think we could help each other. You’re trapped in here, awaiting most certain death or worse and me...well…”

Harry’s head tilts; a silent question even as Riddle holds out his wrist. There’s a thick metal band around it, glowing electronics visible in the black material.

“You need my help and I need yours,” Riddle says, so so temptingly, “They don’t trust me; I’ve spent  _ months, years _ playing to their tune to get even a modicum of freedom and still don’t stand a chance of getting out of here but with  _ you _ and  _ your gift _ …”

He wants to use Harry -  _ of course _ . Predictable, Harry thinks, he’s pretty sure the muggles -  _ mundanes _ would bottle that up and distribute it if they could.

“Also,” Riddle isn’t finished his pitch, stepping away from the door and towards Harry, “Also you  _ remember _ . That has to count for something, Potter, even if it is you.”

Harry remembers. A curse, he had thought; remembering too much is not a  _ gift _ . It is overwhelming and there is sometimes just  _ too much _ . He hadn’t understood when he was seven and the dreams started; he doesn’t understand now he is fourteen and come to the realisation that it wasn’t a dream.

He was a wizard and he was that boy who wouldn’t die and he was fighting a war and then--

Then he wasn’t.

Riddle drops down to a crouch in front of him and Harry can’t stop the flinch when he reaches for Harry. He tries to summon up the energy to move away; the drug is fading, he’s sure they’ll be by with another dose soon. “Relax,” Riddle chides, “I’m going to take the mask off. No gilded words though, Potter.”

He considers fighting, there’s a phantom pain in a lightning scar that doesn’t exist and for a moment the boy in front of him is a white-skinned man with serpent features and slit pupils and then--

Then it’s just a boy, sixteen and young and with too many memories of a lifetime shoved onto him and he hears the mechanism click open.

He feels it release and tumble away and doesn’t hesitate. He lashes out with a wild punch straight at Riddle. The other boy is prepared though and has the advantage of not being drugged up. A strong grip catches Harry’s flailing punch and Riddle’s other hand goes for Harry’s throat. Harry freezes when he feels the soft pad of fingers sink in around his pulse.

“Fuck you,” Harry says, now he is able to.

“Eloquent,” Riddle says, shifting as Harry kicks out at him until his weight pins Harry to the ground, “So; how do you feel about a deal?” His eyes gleam, a hint of the psychopath buried under soft brown eyes and human features.

Harry feels his lip curl in disgust, “With you? Baby psychopath and mass murderer? No thanks.”

“I’ll help you get out of here,” Riddle says, “You need me - I know the way, I can get us both out of here but I  _ need _ your help.” His thumb brushes Harry’s pulse point, his hand wrapped around Harry’s throat almost bruisingly tight. 

It must hurt Riddle’s pride to say that, Harry thinks, and he can see the way Riddle’s teeth are clenched. This is  _ genuinely _ important to him. “You  _ need  _ me,” he repeats, assessing Riddle’s desperation, that frantic creature under his skin that drives him to plead with Harry for his help. Parasitic, Harry thinks, like that being that had latched onto Quirrel, pawned off the Malfoy’s fortune, curled up in Wormtail’s hands except--

Tom Riddle, pinning him down, reminds him more of the diary than any other incarnation of the snake-faced Dark Lord Harry had met. And it’s that, more than anything, that makes him ask further.

“I help you,” Harry says slowly, “And you get us out?” A short sharp confirmatory nod, “What do you need? Why do you need me to do it? What is it?”

Riddle leans back a little, gaze almost defensively, “Are you agreeing?” he asks back.

Harry stares. He  _ wants _ to say ‘no’, he doesn’t even know what he’s agreeing  _ to.  _ “Fine,” he says, he can always tell Riddle to go away if it involved murder. In actually fact- “No killing anyone,” he says, “ _ Don’t-- _ ”

He doesn’t get the instruction out because the grip around his throat tightens, choking the sentence before it forms, “That’s cute, Potter,  _ really _ . Fancy  _ you  _ of all people with your delicate little moral sensibilities getting the power to make people dance around like puppets.”

Harry claws at Riddle’s wrist with his free hand, nails bluntly scratching at the device on Riddle’s wrist and beneath that--

Beneath that soft skin, pale but not that unhealthy almost translucence of Voldemort, and marred. He stiffens at the realisation, at the feel of imperfections scarred across that thin wrist--

Riddle lurches away from him, letting go of Harry’s throat and standing, looming over him, “Don’t push it,” he says, and it should be intimidating but there’s a definite shake in his voice, even as he holds out his hand, “If you’re in we need to move. Now. Before they dope you up again and render you useless. Do we have a deal?”

The hand hovers; so many bad decisions and yet--

The boy in front of him is, impossibly  _ not _ Voldemort.

What the hell, Harry thinks, he’s going to die either way.

He takes the hand.

*

Tom Riddle is almost definitely not meant to be down on this level. Harry realises this almost instantly as they have to dart into the shadows to avoid a patrolling guard. He has a stolen keycard in hand, his eyes are too shifty, too used to sneaking around and there’s a desperation to his movements. This is, he realises, all or nothing. They work together and get out or they stay trapped in here forever.

How that must  _ gall _ Riddle, to be so reliant on somebody else.

“You’re a mutant, right?” Harry asks, enjoying the opportunity to finally talk without curbing his tongue, “What is your power anyway? Avada Kedavra with a touch? Or, no, wait, you shapeshift, right? Back into that snakelike monstrosity? Why do you look the same age as me anyway, what’s up with that?”

Riddle shoves him through a door and he goes, stumbling slightly as Riddle follows, closing the door behind them and peering through intently for a few seconds before gesturing Harry up a flight of stairs. “I  _ am _ the same age as you, Potter. I don’t know why, and nobody else I’ve met is half a century out in age. I’m clearly just  _ special _ ,” he sneers.

“Maybe that’s your power,” Harry squints at him, “Eternal youth--”

“I’m  _ actually _ sixteen you nitwick.”

“Just checking; you can’t do what I can do, can you?”

“You haven’t told me what it is you can do aside from that beautiful demonstration--”

Harry flinches. “I can make people do what I want,” he says, bluntly, twisted words a cracked mirror of what he had once heard a young Tom Riddle say. If Riddle realises this he doesn’t react, just stares at Harry with a raw sort of hunger. “Don’t look like that,” he snaps, “It’s like having the  _ Imperius _ I can use on accident - I told someone to forget they’d seen me; managed to wipe their whole fucking memory; total amnesia.”

“How  _ quaint _ ; Boy Wonder gets an Unforgivable for a mutation,” Riddle hums.

“You don’t?”

“No,” Riddle shakes his head, “I don’t manipulate. No killing curse touch. No shapeshifting. No age control. No torture curse either, before you ask.”

Harry closes his mouth and tries to pretend he hadn’t been about to ask. Riddle pushes past him and swipes the stolen keycard through the next door. This whole wing of the facility has the same harsh cold feeling to it; a clinical cleanliness. It makes him uneasy as he follows Riddle though the maze of corridors. Unlike the main building that at least pretends it’s some sort of elaborate summer camp crossed with boarding school, this part of the facility makes no pretenses.

It is a laboratory. A prison for humans, for  _ mutants _ \--

“How long before they notice I’m gone?” Harry asks, “Or you don’t appear like a good little lap dog?”

A shrug, another key card swipe and the door opens and finally they almost walk into someone. A scientist; female, old and standing slightly stooped with grey hair in a messy bun. She holds a rack of test tubes in her hand. Harry blinks at her; she’s familiar and yet at the same time--

His memories slip away from him as the test tube rack hits the ground. She makes it two steps towards an alarm or radio or  _ something _ , Harry’s not sure because he’s already snapping out,  _ “Don’t _ ,” and she stops moving. There is a second too long of silence, and Harry steps fully into the room, eyes darting around the chemically clean environment that makes no pretense at what they do here. The woman…

She is looking at him with recognition and shock. She had not been expecting him, but she knows who he is. It’s shallow, superficial, only one-reality deep but it’s there. “Harry,” she says, staring at him, “Harry, please--”

His head tilts; does he know her, he ponders, eyes tracing her features and--

“Figg,” he says, blinking at her, the lab coat had thrown him off. That and the lack of cats. “Arabella Figg?”

“Who?” Riddle twists to look at him, “Potter, just tell her what to do so we can get out of here…”

Figg looks to Riddle and back to Harry. There’s no fear there - she doesn’t know who Riddle is, “Harry, please, just hold on. Dumbledore’s been looking for you for years. I don’t know why but he’s a good man with a good cause. He knows about the facility, he’s coming here--”

Harry’s world shifts, he’s aware of Riddle’s snarled anger and his own desperate clinging horror twisting into betrayal and the once-squib, now mundane scientist playing spy keeps talking--

“He didn’t know where you were, I swear, but they’ve been planning to deal with this facility for months… if you can just hold on, please, Dumbledore--”

Dumbledore, Harry thinks, Dumbledore sent him to his death.

Dumbledore can rot.

“ _ Shut up _ ,” he snaps, “ _ Take the band off Riddle _ .”

She jumps to follow his instructions like she’s been electrocuted. Riddle is silent, staring at him as she mindlessly finds a matching black machine to hold to the wristband, punching in numbers until there is an affirmative beep and it clicks open. Riddle yanks it off, tossing it carelessly to one side.

“What does that even do?” Harry asks, watching Riddle rub at his wrist almost tenderly.

“Tracks--” Figg chokes through the way Harry’s mutation silences her tongue. He relaxes the force he has on her mind and she slumps slightly, “It’s a tracker. Riddle managed to get out once - it’s a precaution in case he managed again.”

“It’s useless now,” Riddle shrugs, “And now for the second thing--”

Harry lurches forwards, “I said ‘don’t kill’--”

“Relaaax,” Riddle drawls, “It’s just a minor thing. You asked me about my mutation, well, they took my powers away from me after I tried escaping a year ago. You,” his dark gaze hyperfixates on Figg, “You took my powers away from me. Now? I’m getting them back.” He reaches up to the back of his neck, pushing down the collar and dark hair out of the way revealing--

There is--

Harry feels a bit sick.

It’s not a collar, not quite. It looks like a collar that had been cut up and broken off and half-lodged itself under the skin at the nape of Riddle’s neck. The same flashing lights under the metal light it, even as a few probing wires reach out spidery fingers straight  _ into _ Riddle’s neck.

“You can get it out,” Riddle says through gritted teeth, “You put it in, I know you can get it out. Do it.”

Figg’s hands are shaking, “We put it in for a  _ reason _ , it rendered your powers  _ void _ \--”

“Harry,” Riddle says, a prompt for him to use his powers but Harry’s still staring with fascination at the device, “ _ Harry _ \--”

“Why don’t you use it on everyone then?” he asks, curious despite himself.

“It’s s-s-specific to him,” the scientist stutters out, “We haven’t gotten far enough to target the genes that make you mutants yet, b-but we tailored this to Riddle. It was experimental; sits at the base of the brainstem and interrupts signals from the hippocampus. We had to find someway to block his powers after his escape.”

“ _ What _ ?” Harry lurches to his feet. He feels sick and he’s not sure if that’s because he didn’t know they had technology that could block powers or because Riddle’s somehow conned Harry into getting it taken out.

But he thinks about the mask, about the cloying choking of blocking off that part of him that however much he detests the ability, it’s still a part of him. He imagines losing it, imagines something reaching into his head and around his vocal cords to  _ stop it _ \--

“ _ Take it out _ ,” he instructs.

She fights, but it’s weak, and she moves to do it even as she protests, “It’s in for a reason, Harry, he’s dangerous. He-- he drove one of the guards to  _ suicide _ \--”

“ _ Take it out and stop talking. _ ”

Riddle stares at him, face blank, almost grateful, even as Figg moves into action with needles and forceps and that black machine. He looks like he can’t quite believe Harry is helping him and honestly Harry isn’t either. This is the man who killed Harry’s parents in another life. He is the monument to all Harry’s misfortunes in a world that exists only in Luna’s half-mad ramblings and his own dreams.

There is no way Riddle killed his parents in this life. He would have been  _ three _ .

It doesn’t acquit him of his crimes. It doesn’t even start, but Harry still values honour even if his house colours mean nothing to anyone in this world. Besides, if he helps the boy, maybe he’ll be less inclined to kill Harry.

It’s easier than he envisioned watching Figg remove the pieces of technology wedged into Tom’s neck. It comes out with a spray of blood and on rote she treats it, mops it up with a bandage and gauze. She doesn’t stitch it, and Harry doesn’t make her. Let Riddle have a scar for a change. He pokes at the piece of plastic, ominously still flashing blue lights at him with tangled silver fingers coated in blood. There is a moment when Riddle straightens that Harry genuinely thinks he’s going to shapeshift straight back into Voldemort.

But when he opens his eyes they’re still brown. His hand comes up to press against the bandages, knocking aside Figg’s hands as he stands from the chair he’d been sitting in and twists his neck a bit in clear discomfort.

His features are still human. His gaze settles on where Figg stands, still bound by Harry’s powers. Tom’s lips curls up in glee, “Thank you,” he says, head tilting slightly.

Figg whimpers, stumbles backwards. Her eyes widen in fear.

“Ah,” Riddle sighs in pleasure, “Still got it.”

She flinches and drops to her knees. Harry stares because he can’t work out what Riddle’s doing. He’s just  _ standing there _ , he’s--

_ “Stop it _ ,” he snaps, and Riddle jolts as if electrocuted. On the floor Figg sucks in air, limbs trembling, “ _ Get out of here _ ,” Harry tells her firmly, directly,  _ “You forgot to do something the other side of the facility, leave.” _

She straightens, heading for the door.

_ “ _ Oh, and one more thing,” Harry adds,  _ “Forget we were here _ .”

Her eyes glaze, slide right over him and the door swings shut behind her. Dumbledore won’t be finding out they were here from her at least. Does the man even remember? Harry isn’t sure how it works, how relationships work - did the man still know his parents? How many things change, how much stays the same?”

Tom stares at the door, almost regretfully, “Spoil all my fun,” he clicks his tongue, and that is, inevitably, when his gaze falls on Harry, lighting up with glee.

_ “Don’t _ \--” Harry starts, to command Riddle to stop abusing his power but-- an odd feeling creeps over him, a strong sense of trust and reluctance. He can trust Riddle, he feels, he doesn’t want to shackle him. He remembers how horrible it was to be bound, waves of helplessness and he  _ can’t _ do that to Riddle--

“That’s it,” Riddle says, eyeing him up. Mind oddly blank of distrust and wariness, Harry admires how handsome Riddle had looked as a teenager before Dark Magic had twisted his features so. Soft dark hair with a slight curl, pale skin and a jawline Harry could cut himself on. There is nothing serpentine visible, not now, and his nose is definitely present.

Voldemort would be the sort of person who would cut off his nose to spite his face. Quite literally in his case.

Said nose flares in confusion, “You’re odd,” he says, bemused, blinking at Harry, “ _ Merlin _ , how do you cope? You…” he seems to struggle for the words, still frowning at Harry. A determined glint appears in his eyes, and Harry wants nothing more than in that instance to help Riddle, to make himself useful, too--

Something is  _ wrong _ .

It is not like the Imperius Curse. Harry’s mind is his own, there are no waves of contentedness, no ocean of peace to simply float in, but there is something  _ off _ .

The thought occurs to him and no sooner does the panic start to rise up, it vanishes replaced with a beautiful, calm kind of content, the kind that only comes from sitting on a smooth wooden bench in a park on a sunny day.

“ _ Don’t use your powers on me _ ,” Harry says before he can really think about it, and with an alarming tilt the world  _ snaps _ back into focus like an elastic band. It stings, the way his emotions slip-slide back to the mean. Riddle stiffens, eyes widening in surprise and Harry takes several sharp steps backwards, “The  _ fuck _ ,” he snaps at Tom, furious suddenly as realisation crashes in, “What  _ was  _ that? You said you couldn’t  _ manipulate _ \--”

Riddle’s on his feet, “I said I couldn’t do what you did,” he says with an easy shrug, “I said nothing about manipulation--”

“Emotions,” Harry says, eyes darting around wildly, “Emotional manipulation… you’re an  _ empath _ ?” he chokes, staring at Riddle in horror, “You?  _ Empathy _ ?”

Riddle makes a contrite noise in the back of his throat, “Is that so unusual?” he asks, then appears to realise the question, “Never mind,” he rolls his eyes, “I mean, it wouldn’t have been my first pick either, but as you see it has its uses.” Fury rolls along Harry’s veins because  _ how dare he _ \-- “Oh relax,” Riddle snaps, “You’re not even surprised, you knew I’d use my powers on you so don’t feel so betrayed, it’s pathetic.”

“Stop reading my emotions!” Harry shouts, but he fails to put any power behind it. Riddle appears to consider his instructions before not complying with a smirk.

“But it’s absolutely fascinating having a glimpse into that head of yours.”

“You’re crazy,” Harry snaps, “Your horcruxes screwed you up.”

Slight alarm flares in Riddle’s eyes, head tilting as he examines Harry, “You found out about the horcruxes?” he asks, like he hasn’t found the charred remnants of the Gaunt shack, like he wasn’t aware of the Gringotts break in. Harry stares at him; Tom Riddle given empathy, he thinks, is a strange new thing. Voldemort was, at least, predictable in his madness.

Tom Riddle isn’t. He’s new and young and there’s something still distinctly  _ off _ about him. “You’ve got what you wanted,” Harry says, “You’ve got your powers back. Deal done,” he twists, wanting to run, to escape, to fly free and away and--

A hand clamps down around his arm bringing him up short, “We are not  _ done _ ,” Riddle snaps, standing over Harry. Despite being a lanky teenager, Harry’s still only fourteen and malnourished. Riddle overpowers him easy, tugging him closer, fingers curled around Harry’s bicep like a vice, “Where are you  _ going _ ?” Riddle hisses. Harry blinks at him, the words almost like parseltongue except  _ not _ , that language doesn’t exist here, the magic that twisted his words to hisses isn’t a  _ thing _ .

Riddle’s words don’t have the power that Harry’s do, still pinning tendrils of Tom’s emotional manipulation in place. “Leaving,” Harry snaps anyway, “I’m getting Luna and getting out of here. Without you--”

“We had a  _ deal _ ,” Riddle sneers, nostrils flaring reminiscent of his more snake-like days, “You gonna throw it away for your little clairvoyant pet?”

“Let go of me,” Harry says, weakly, but there’s not power to the words.

“Harry,” Riddle fucking  _ croons _ , “Is that an  _ order _ ?” he mocks, tone venomous. It might even be smooth or charismatic, but it comes off with a rough rasped accent and teenage pettiness, “You’ve gotta  _ mean it.” _

“Fuck off,” Harry snaps again, trying to tug his arm free. Anger and rebelliousness flare within him and he reaches for his power to  _ make Riddle go away _ \-- “I can make it a order, I can--”

Riddle lets go of him so fast Harry almost face-plants on the floor. He blinks lazily down at Harry who is scrabbling to stand, “You’re adorable,” he says, amusement curdling in his tone. “How much does it damage your precious morals every time you use your mutation? You didn’t seem to care when Umbridge was carving herself up just now for your entertainment. Had I known you were inclined to violence with that temper of yours I’d have put more effort into recruiting you for my Knights.”

“You were too busy trying to murder me,” Harry says, dully, as if Riddle isn’t right, as if the very thought of using his mutation doesn’t make him feel a bit sick, as if he doesn’t simultaneously detest and crave the power that comes with his words. He straightens; Riddle stands between himself and the door, “Now it appears kidnapping is more your forte. Let me pass; I need to get to Luna--”

“Don’t be the fool reckless Gryffindor,” Riddle chides, “This is not the time for heroics, besides, you heard the spy - the children here are going to be rescued eventually once the Order make a move. I’d rather be long gone before that so unless you  _ want  _ to hang around and be Dumbledore’s pawn--”

Anger flares. Only half is from Riddle’s words, the rest is from the hopeless, terrifying walk to the forest in another life. It’s half-there and yet it’s years old and so fresh it still stings and it fuels the all-too familiar roll of power and wraps almonds around his tongue as he tells Tom, “ _ Step aside _ .”

Riddle does so, jaw clenching and just like that Harry’s gone. Pushed past and out the door. He hears Riddle shout something, doesn’t listen. Doubts Tom is going to bother following him - he fears Dumbledore more than he wants to keep Harry around for his power. Besides; he’s got what he wanted. He’s got his empathy back.

Had somebody asked Harry to pick one mutant power or magical spell to ascribe to someone; empathy is probably the last thing he would have thought to prescribe to the psychopathic once-megalomaniac behind him. He himself would probably have attributed some skill with defence or flying or disarming; not the curse that crushes people’s will to dust.

It doesn’t matter - he will use it if he has to. He will get Luna out - precious, innocent Luna whose dreams are true and whose spirit remains unchanged, and then he will leave and--

Do what, he doesn't know. Getting out is the most important thing right now.

He turns the corner, spots the door that leads back to the main building and throws himself at it. His shoulder hits it and jars and that is the point he remembers that Riddle still has the damn key card.

He spins around to find someone to control or an alternative route and almost walks straight into the barrel of a gun. Umbridge smiles at him, bandages wrapped over her hands and weapon pointed at his heart. “Say one word and I’ll shoot,” she warns, and Harry scrabbles in vain at the locked door to no avail. “Oh, Mr Potter,” Umbridge says with a thin-lipped smile, “You didn’t think it was that easy, did you?”

*

This is, Harry thinks, going to be the end of his short second life.

“Did you think you could escape? Really?” Condescending words drip out, run down Harry’s spine and freeze to ice there. He can’t breath. He reaches for his power, tries to think of what words he can get out before she pulls to trigger, can’t come up with any-- “You foolish boy,” Umbridge scolds, “You horrible boy. I’ve been told the bosses want you alive to try and harness your power but I’m sure I’ll be able to spin out a tale of how I  _ had _ to do it. You were simply too dangerous, too unstable; I had to put you down.”

“Do _ n’t _ \--”

The gun fires so close it grazes his cheek. He stills, voice mute. He refuses to beg. He refuses to look away. He glares venomous green eyes at the hated woman who just laughs. “Don’t worry,” she says, lowering the gun, “I won’t shoot you, Potter. That’s too easy.” She lets out a girlish giggle, dropping the gun carelessly on the ground next to her. Harry flinches, half-expecting it to go off as it bounces.

Now unarmed, he opens his mouth to taste the cyanide poison of his power, to reach out and manipulate her, to--

He’s cold, he thinks first, and that’s in the second before despair reaches a skeletal hand into his heart and squeezes.

“Stop--- stop---s--” he can’t form the words, what’s the point, he thinks, everyone is dead and he is dead, born to die, raised like a  _ lamb to a slaughter _ , wouldn’t it be easier to just  _ die _ \-- “Stop--” he can’t summon the power, can’t--

“Shooting you is easy,” Umbridge looks regretful, but it’s a facade, an empty mask worn over vindictive glee, “I didn’t want to do this, you’re a filthy mutant freak but you deserve this.”

In Harry’s head Lily Potter  _ screams _ .

Oh Merlin, he thinks in despair and horror, she’s a dementor. Umbridge is a human dementor. Everything Harry hates and fears shoved into one uncomfortable pink-wrapped package. He gets one image of a dementor with a cold clammy hand and aura of despair dressed in baby pink before the cry of his father drowns it out.

“No,” he chokes out, “No, don’t--”

_ “Take him to your sister! Hide him; Lily go, go now!” _

“Oh yes,” Umbridge says vindictively, “It’s not so nice, is it, having someone’s mutation used against you.”

Despair is a black hole. An impossible gravity, with clawing, reaching fingers that search out, grab and  _ drag _ everything it encounters into it’s bloody heart. It’s inescapable.

“Expecto--” Harry murmurs against the horror and revulsion.  _ Expecto Patronum.  _ Expect protection; how ridiculous. What protection exists here? He is alone and friendless; a mutant in a world that hates mutants. His friends are gone and he is  _ alone _ .

_ “James!” _

_ “Lily, RUN!” _

“There is something I found out I can do,” Umbridge says, examining her nails like there is something wrong with the way they’re filed to perfection, “A way to make you behave. A way to stop you even thinking of using your filthy mutant power ever again… don’t worry, it doesn’t hurt. I don’t think you’ll feel much of anything soon--”

A kiss. It’s not, thankfully, an actual kiss. It is what Harry imagines a dementor’s kiss would have felt like. Clawing black tendrils reaching in, a numb, endless void and maybe she’s right, maybe it’s easier to just…

Let go.

_ “Not Harry,  _ **_please_ ** _ , he’s just a  _ **_boy_ ** _ \--” _

In his head Lily whirls away from him with red hair and in reality Umbridge reaches out towards him to make skin contact and there is a loud and very definite gunshot.

Harry’s world blinks out to black, even as the sight of Tom Riddle swims into view, hair in disarray and yet still looking remarkably poised as he holds a gun on Umbridge, finger already flexed around the trigger.

His world blinks out, Lily’s scream still ringing in his ears.

*

There’s a growing pool of blood on the floor. Tom stares at it, surprisingly unbothered.  _ Something wrong with him _ , they had said at the orphanage, even before he dreamed of castles and magic and ruling the world. They’re right, he thinks, there is something wrong with him.

It’s not a bad thing though. It makes him powerful. It makes him  _ better _ .

Cloying terror and fear and despair still hang in the air like smoke. Directed at him they probably would have rendered him useless. He remembers they have, in the past, but now, today, directed at the boy curled up on the floor unconscious it had been easy to throw it off, to scoop up the gun and bring it around to that foul woman.

He’d been here for  _ years _ , the orphanage had been ecstatic to get rid of him. After his failed escape attempt a year ago when they took his powers and latched a tracker onto him like a dog he hadn’t seriously considered getting out again, but then Harry  _ freaking _ Potter had been dragged into the room with  _ power _ radiating off his hunched, beaten form. He’d been here months and Tom hadn’t noticed. Hadn’t even  _ realised _ ...

Tom had been good, so good, played Umbridge’s little games, bowed his head, bided his time and the moment he saw Potter he knew - it was now or never.

He steps around the dead body to where Potter lies, curled in on himself and shivering. He’s chill to the touch, weak and so so  _ vulnerable _ . Yet he is Tom’s salvation, razor words spat out and Tom’s free. Like it’s  _ easy.  _ Like it’s  _ nothing _ . Such power…

Tom’s hands still shake slightly from the adrenaline; from the feel of the gun in his hands, the power he held there, the sharpness to the colour around him and the soft rise and fall of the boy’s breathing. It’s with an almost reluctance that he pulls away, slipping the gun into his belt and stepping away.

This is going to be difficult, he thinks, eyeing up an unconscious Harry. He should just leave the boy here. Dumbledore and his gang might arrive in time to save him, and if they didn’t well… it wasn’t Tom’s problem.

Except--

He doesn’t need the boy anymore, he reminds himself, despite Potter’s pretty little talent with words. He can manage without, he’s  _ Tom Riddle _ , he is  _ Lord Voldemort _ , he is not reliant on a fourteen year old who would probably sooner spit in his face than help him.

Said fourteen year old does have a righteous, honourable streak though and he can  _ use _ that. It goes against every instinct - Tom is not the sort to take painstaking care to ensure someone’s continued survival, and the irony that it’s Harry Potter is not lost on him. But the boy could prove to be useful and Tom will continue to prioritise his own survival above everything else.

He turns, preparing to walk away but doesn’t make it even a single step.

Maybe it’s a strange fondness for the persistence with with the child fights, or a possessive desire left over from his day of obsessing over murdering the boy, but it’s with a sigh that he turns back to the unconscious boy. “Come on, Potter,” he murmurs, even though Harry can’t hear him. The boy is small; had he always been this slight and malnourished, he wonders. He doesn’t remember. Memories blur.

He is sixteen and not an adult, just a teenager with too many memories that don’t fit together. He is exhausted and his neck hurts and he has an unconscious fourteen year old he is now responsible for. He sighs.

He can always kill the boy later, he reminds himself.

*

Sirius Black picks his way through the facility. The members of the Order are looking after the children, wrapping them in blankets and leading them towards the bus to take them away from this hell hole. The staff members have either fled or died in the wake of their attack on the facility, and at his heels Remus stalks in his wolf form.

It was irony and cruelty at it’s finest that Remus’ unwanted curse in one life had followed him into the next, twisted and mutated itself into what is almost a  _ gift _ by comparison.

“Anything?” he asks Moony, who is scenting the air. His nose twitches for something,  _ anything _ that might suggest that their godchild was here. It’s been years of nothing, Sirius isn’t expecting anything now and he certainly isn’t expecting Remus to bound away, Sirius barely keeping up with him. His own ability to shift into a dog doesn’t exist here - he’s confined to his own two feet as he races after the wolf.

Remus skids into a room filled with files. There is blood on the floor, long dry. A figure stands by a filing cabinet, flipping through files and Sirius takes a step towards the white-bearded Albus Dumbledore who looks up at them as they enter.

Dumbledore sighs sadly, “Ah,” he says, gaze skimming over Remus and then Sirius in the doorway, “So he  _ was _ here, then. I had hoped…” he sighs and shakes his head. Remus sniffs around the blood on the floor but thankfully appears disinterested.

That’s good.

It means it isn’t Harry’s blood.

“What is it, Professor?” Sirius perks up, “Have you found something? Was Harry here? Remus came straight here...” He holds hope like a candle in the dark to light the way as he moves closer to where Dumbledore is holding paper files - those, at least, were not all destroyed by the server wipe during their attack.

Yet something is cracked in Albus’ face; with horror and sadness and what Sirius thinks might be a hint of fear. “Harry was here,” he says, and Sirius looks over the file. There’s a picture of Harry - Merlin, he looks so small. Sirius had forgotten how small and scrawny Harry had been at fourteen.

Large green eyes stare out of the picture. The files are either basic details they know already or blacked out redacted information. Harry J Potter. fourteen years old. Born 31st July. Powers are covered up, but the formulation for drug compounds they’ve tried on him aren’t. Sirius flinches at the sight, “Was he with the other children?” he asks, “We have to find him, is he--”

Remus shakes his great furred head, one ear twitching anxiously. Dumbledore is still looking tense.

“We’ll find him,” Sirius insists, “Wherever they’ve moved him to, we’ll find him. I failed him once, I won’t fail him again, Albus. Lily and James fled with only a faint recollection of what happened but we all know now, we’ll find Harry and make it right and  _ why are you looking like that _ .”

Silently Dumbledore holds out another file. Another boy with dark hair, sixteen, born 31st December, Sirius doesn’t recognise the name, his powers too are blacked out along with several other details. “That boy,” Dumbledore says, and there’s something in his tone maybe, or in his eyes that gives Sirius a clue as to the horror of what he’s about to say, “That boy should not be a boy. He should be older; in his sixties. I fear something has gone wrong.”

“Tom M Riddle,” Sirius reads out.

“He grows up to be Voldemort,” Albus confesses, imparting the great and terrible secret like it’s a razor blade in his throat, “He was also missing from the children we rescued.”

Voldemort. Sirius stares at the teenager in the picture. Handsome, aloof,  _ human _ looking… Just a child. A teenager. The Dark Lord and Harry, in the same correctional facility and now both missing. “We have to find them,” he drops the files, “Now. If baby Voldemort gets to him, if he  _ remembers _ \--”

Dumbledore’s blue gaze is like cancer, “I fear,” he says slowly, “It may already be too late.”


	3. exists in sepia tones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates gonna be less regular as I'm back at work but this is my only WIP so it's got my full attention. I'm looking forward to seeing where it goes XD

Harry wakes to dry lips and a stiff neck. He’s exhausted,  _ drained _ but still alive and breathing. He stretches out, eyes flickering open. His head feels like he’s been hit with a bludger.

“Wouldn’t move,” someone warns him, “You went down pretty hard after she got to you.”

He ignores the voice and sits up anyway and immediately regrets it. He opens his eyes but his vision blacks dubiously. He props himself up and waits for the sickness in his stomach to stop churning. Something cool is shoved into his hand and he takes a grateful sip of the water before he places who exactly is in the room with him and promptly spits it out. “Is it poisoned?”

“If I wanted to kill you,” Riddle perches on a desk of what looks like a too small cheap and non-descript overnight travel lodge, watching him with dark too-intelligent eyes, “I would have left you to be thrown back into that cell I got you out of instead of rescuing you. We had a deal and I, at least, hold up to my side of it.”

Harry takes another sip of the water now he’s determined it to not be poisoned. He’s thirsty and he takes a few large gulps, almost choking in the process, “Why?” he asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve and enjoying the disgusted look Riddle shoots him, “Why on earth would you save me? You want me dead, hell, you’ve been trying to kill me since I was born. Why stop now?”

“Why, Harry, can’t I do something nice for a change?” he plasters a smile to his face that falls as soon as Harry shoots him an unimpressed look, “Isn’t it obvious?” he drawls instead, “You’re  _ useful _ .” His words are plain and blunt, “I’ve encountered nobody with a mutation half a useful as yours. You  _ control _ people. You can’t just go looking for power like that. I  _ found _ you.”

“I’m not a puppet,” Harry snaps, “You can’t  _ make _ me do anything.”

“No,” Riddle’s eyes gleam, “And that’s what makes this so entertaining. Besides,” he adds, stretching like a cat where he’s perched, “You’re the first person I’ve met who remembers. That makes you interesting alone, Potter.”

“Luna remembered. And remember what Figg said? I bet Dumbledore remembers.”

“You didn’t exactly seem keen to talk to the old man,” Riddle notes, and Harry very carefully doesn’t flinch, just takes another shaky sip of the water, “And your friend was clairvoyant, according to her file; it’s hard to tell how much she knew and how much she was picking up off you.”

Harry sits there, staring around at the room. Bland, nondescript, and then there’s Tom Riddle sitting there watching him. “Did you kill her?” he asks, hollowly.

“Are you going to get upset when I say ‘yes’?”

Is he? Harry ponders his own feelings. He had hated Umbridge, yes, but did he want her dead?

He had wanted her to suffer. He had wanted her to feel pain, to know that she was  _ nothing _ , that she was  _ pathetic _ , that she was--

“Merlin,” Riddle pulls a face, “Do you always feel so damn much?”

Harry blinks. He’d forgotten Riddle was an empath. How oddly appropriate and twisted. “Some people aren’t raging sociopaths,” he snaps out. He makes to stand but a spasm shoots through him, and the glass does tumbling to the ground.

“And that would be the withdrawal symptoms,” Riddle says, sounding oddly detached. He makes no effort to help. “Take the tablets,” he gestures, “They’ll help.”

“Where did you get them? Steal them?”

“Sent waves of sympathy at an old lady in a supermarket,” Riddle sounds unbothered by his own brand of blatant manipulation, “Take them, they’re just paracetamol. Painkillers.”

Harry pokes one suspiciously, and decides there are easier ways for Riddle to kill him, “Why are you helping me?” he asks, a flush of fever crawling over him as he sinks exhausted back onto the bed, “I thought you wanted me  _ dead _ .” Suspicion laces every word, his glare would still kill if it could.

Riddle shrugs. Harry blinks at the action - he’d thought such thing was beneath a Dark Lord but no, that was a shrug, “I did,” he says, like that explains everything. It doesn’t. “Guess you just have luck on your side,” he says, a complete non-answer, “You’re more useful alive. Don’t feel so offended or indignant. You told me not to manipulate your emotions so I can’t--”

“It doesn’t last that long,” Harry says, trying not to worry.

“Don’t  _ panic _ , Merlin, I’m not manipulating you,” Riddle rolls his eyes, even as Harry carefully examines everything he’s felt since waking, “I won’t, how’s that, although you can use your gilded words on me if it makes you feel better.”

“I don’t trust you,” Harry says, “Why on earth should I believe you? What do you  _ want _ from me?”

“I want to find out why we’re here,” Riddle says, plainly, “I want to know why we remember. And I want to make my way in this new world unconstricted by that foul place I’ve been in since I was eleven.”

Simple, easy desires; ones more akin to the teenager Riddle looks like rather than the villain he will become. “That’s it?” Harry scoffs, another tremor wracking through him, “You don’t want to kill them all? Enslave them? Mutant superiority?”

“Maybe later,” Riddle says and it takes Harry too long to realise he’s being  _ mocked _ . He bursts out laughing because  _ what a fucking mess _ . “What’s so funny?” Riddle frowns, no doubt reading his emotions as well as his hysterical, borderline manic laughter.

Harry gestures between them. Because this is it, isn’t it? It’s always them, it always comes down to himself and Riddle, “It would be  _ you _ , wouldn’t it?” he asks, “Merlin, look at us. Two runaway teenagers with no money, no documents, and the power to do anything we want except one is a genocidal maniac turned schoolboy empath and the other a schoolboy turned enemy of state. And you - Voldemort, Riddle, whatever the fuck you’re calling yourself, you’re not exactly scary, are you? A Dark Lord turned 15-year old empath?"

Riddle examines him with a smirk, "If you had told me our powers and asked me to assign one to each of us I'd have thought empathy much more suited you and manipulation me. But you appear to have grown into your powers and it's delightful."

"It's foul," Harry snaps, "I tell someone to go fuck themselves and they actually break their back trying."

"Oh, agreed, I can't imagine anything worse than having everyone's pesky emotions in my head. It's just so much baggage, but over the years I have gotten used to it. Used it."

Just as quickly as the hysterical emotions well up they fade. He squints at Riddle, trying to work out if the other boy is the cause of it but he looks blank faced and innocent. Probably was him, then.

Another shake runs through him and despite the painkillers his head pounds. He feels sick. “If you’re going to kill me,” he says, “Kill me in my sleep,” he moans, “Preferably before this gets worse.”

“I’m sure a big brave Gryffindor like you has survived worse. This can’t, after all, be worse than one of my Cruciatus Curses.”

“I don’t know, sure feels like it,” Harry goes through another withdrawal tremor. The words stick in his throat and he curls up a little tighter. Maybe if he closes his eyes and wishes really hard this will be over. He’ll be--

His mind whirls over images - the Burrow, Hogwarts, Ron and Hermione, a too-narrow cot next to Luna - it can’t decide which to stick with and he feels all the worse for it. He’s vaguely aware of Riddle shoving him back into bed, draping a warm blanket over him. 

“Sleep, Potter. You’re in for a rough night.” He’s only half aware of a warm body curling next to him, soft drawl and soothing ocean of emotions lulling him, “Relax. I have no doubt you’ll get through this, Potter, you’re persistently stubborn.”

*

He does not expect to stay.

He sleeps fitfully and wakes feeling worse than he did when he went to sleep but his head is no longer pounding and he no longer feels sick. They leave the travel lodge; when Harry refuses to rob someone with honeyed words Riddle spins yarns about lost tickets and plays around with their emotions like putty. They’re on a train to London and Harry doesn’t even feel guilty - the man Riddle had bribed had too much money anyway.

 

They don’t discuss where they’re going. It’s without really thinking about it that they end up Charing Cross Road, wandering down and stopping at the spot the Leaky Cauldron should be.

There’s nothing. The street is busy - cars and taxis going both directions, the shops are your standard high street affair, repeated on every busy London Road. There is no dingy pub. The one alley they find leads to the back of a takeaway place with overflowing bin bags. A cat scrounges through the leftovers.

The barrier at King’s Cross is solid. Harry scams a cashier into believing he’s already paid and deposits a meal in Riddle’s lap, “There’s no point,” he says, “There’s nothing here, Riddle. It’s not the same world.”

Riddle looks like he’s lost something precious. Like he’s mourning someone’s death except that’s ridiculous. Riddle doesn’t  _ mourn _ . Except…

This is not Voldemort. Harry can’t pin it down, not quite, but there is something intrinsically  _ different _ about Riddle in comparison to the monster he remembers. He has no wand of yew, no snake at his side - Harry’s pretty sure neither of them can talk to snakes, not anymore. They’re like small boats floating at sea with absolutely nothing to anchor them. “If in doubt,” he says, “Find a library,” he grabs Riddle’s sleeve, tugging him up, “Come on.”

“You’re all melancholic,” Tom follows him, “Is that something one of your friends said? It sounds too intelligent for you.”

Harry presses his lips together, “I bet anything sounds intelligent given the company you used to hang around with.”

“Not all the Knights were incompetent,” Riddle bites back. It’s almost friendly, this odd banter between them. Harry squints at him again, disjarred by  _ something _ .

“Knights?” he asks instead. “They your top tier Death Eaters or did you vote on a name change?” he watches Riddle’s expression flicker, turns his curiosity into a taunt, “Can I put forth a suggestion? You should totally make up another anagram; did you know that out of your name you can also make--”

“Shut up,” Tom cuts off Harry’s glee before he gets there, “The library’s here - do your thing--”

Harry spends the next fifteen minutes signing up for a library card legally just to annoy the other boy. The only thing he bluffs on is the non-existent cash; they’re still making do with nothing, just Harry’s words and empty pockets. It’s gotten them a change of clothes from a local charity shop. It’s a relief to shed the ratty facility horrors. Twenty minutes later he’s logging into a computer cautiously while Riddle looks at it as if it might bite his hand off.

“I forgot you were old,” he says, as if Harry himself knows how to use one beyond what he had seen Dudley do in another life. This is also fancier than anything he’s seen Dudley ever use. He pulls up a search engine semi-successfully as he’d been instructed and then hesitates half a moment before he types in ‘Lily and James Potter’.

Maybe it’s too ingrained into him from two lifetimes worth of lies, but he still expects an article about a car crash to come up. Instead: “Merlin,” Riddle leans over his shoulder, breath warm against Harry’s neck. It’s uncomfortably close; the hairs along the back of Harry’s neck rise up and he’s about to flinch away when Riddle does so first, “Try and feel a little quieter,” he says, with a wince.

Harry makes absolutely no effort to do so. The article sits in front of him; clear in black and white print. “Murdered,” he whispers, “You’re not even there and they’re still killed. Found murdered in their homes by mutants.”

“Grindelwald,” Riddle says, “Apparently he’s a famous mutant known for his ability to induce psychedelic visions. Vision that have charmed  _ hundreds  _  of mutants to his cause, but somehow failed to charm the Potters. So he killed them for it.”

“No prophecy, but they still die,” Harry can barely believe it. Grief wells up, fresh and clean like they have just died once more in his head. Maybe he’d been holding out hope the Dursley’s had lied again. Maybe he’d prayed they might be alive, or he’d be able to find Sirius or--

“They must have been mutants,” Riddle hums, “No mention of their powers? Shame.”

“If you exist your mother must have been able to do what you can,” Harry’s grief makes him vindictive, “Make your dad think he was  _ in love _ , a love potion by a different name but a love potion all the same.”

“An Imperius by a different name smells as sweet,” Riddle quotes something, nose wrinkling, “You know an awful lot about my life, Potter.”

Harry picks his way through a few more articles covering the murder of his parents, “Dumbledore gave me a history lesson instead of teaching me how to destroy your horcruxes. He… Merlin, I don’t know, maybe he wanted me to feel sorry for you or maybe he just wanted to make sure I was committed enough to kill you.” Harry’s feelings about Albus Dumbledore are mixed, half-remembered betrayal clashing with respect and that awful awful understanding because he knows  _ why _ the old grandfatherly figure did it.

Riddle pulls a face again; Harry’s clearly feeling too much. He rocks back in the chair, turning to where Tom is perched on the desk, “So that’s my parents - what about yours? What happened after the not-love potion enamourment of your dad? If you were in an orphanage - does that mean the same thing happened to your parents? Merope died and your dad’s living in a rich mansion somewhere with your grandparents? You didn’t kill him at eleven, right?”

Tom’s lip curls in a sneer, “I don’t go around killing family off at eleven, Potter. Do you?” Harry looks away, sharply, expression blank but emotions giving him away, “ _ Do you _ ?”

“I killed Quirrell at eleven, remember?”

“I thought I killed him,” Riddle blinks, “I was possessing him.”

“I… my mother’s blood protection  _ set him on fire _ .”

There’s a second too long as Riddle stares at him, “Of course,” he says, like that is the most natural way to kill someone. “But why do you feel guilty, then? Also you said  _ family _ \--”

“Hey, look,” Harry swings the computer screen around, “Your dad’s dead after all, turns out your uncle killed him. Morfin Gaunt, local mutant with the ability to talk to serpents sets pet snakes on local Eton boy,” he scoffs, “Our mutant manifestations are fucking  _ weird _ ,” he snorts. “Hey, maybe you could claim his inheritance; he had a big ass house, right?”

“I don’t want it,” Tom says, dismissively, still staring at Harry, “What did you mean about your family? I mean - clearly your parents still died somehow but no… that’s not what you meant… your godfather…” He pauses, probing Harry’s emotional response to his words.

“Don’t,” Harry says, but there’s not enough force in his words. He settles for glaring, not in the mood to slip into that cyanide poison mindset.

“You could just tell me,” Tom says, “Come on. You’re dying to share, get it off your chest,” and then he has the audacity to reach out, snagging one of the strings from Harry’s ratty hoody and using it to tug Harry closer, “Confess your sins--”

Harry snorts, more amused than intimidated by Riddle’s antics, “What is this; I have seen your heart and it is mine?” he quotes the locket and enjoys the frown that furrows Riddle’s perfect face. “You want to know so badly,” he says, yanking himself free of Riddle, “You can look it up. I’m going to get a coffee.”

“You’re fourteen, so much coffee isn’t good for you!” Riddle shouts after him as he heads out onto the high street.

It’s easier to think outside amongst the hustle and bustle of London’s commuters. He dodges pedestrians, wondering what the date is and if he’s hit his fifteenth birthday yet. Fifteen and on the run, he thinks, what a laugh. At least in his former life he’d had somewhere to go. Friends; a community; school; but here all Harry has is Tom  _ freaking _ Riddle.

He should leave. Strike out on his own. He contemplates it, seriously considers it and makes it three steps. He really should leave; should run and make his own way. He doesn’t need Riddle, after all, he has his mutation, he is an adult in his head even if he does look like an underfed teen, he would be  _ fine _ \--

He could hunt down Ron and Hermione. The Weasleys. Sirius. The precious few people who actually matter.

He wants to burst into hysterical laughter at the hopelessness of it - he doesn’t know the first place to start.

He could do it though, he just needs to leave--

He turns back to the library where he left Riddle. It’s not like he knows where to find the others right now and besides--

Someone needs to make sure Riddle doesn’t snap and go on a murder spree.

*

If Riddle had actually looked up anything he makes no sign of it, “Ah, good,” he says, “You’re back. Look at this - after years of non-action Albus Dumbledore, famous mutant rights activist leads a team known as the ‘Order of the Phoenix’ to take down… huh, guess Figg was right. They took their time though--”

Harry snatches the mouse from Tom’s hand, “They took down the facility?” he asks, feelings mixed, “Completely?”

“Why are you relieved?”

“It means Luna got out,” Harry says, “And the other kids, I guess, but I knew Luna.”

“Oh, your little clairvoyant, yes, well… it says here Dumbledore was an Oxford graduate, no known mutant activity at all until around the time your parents died. I wonder why he’s starting now?”

“Because we remember, now,” Harry says, “At least… we’re assuming he remembers, right? But Umbridge didn’t, and neither did Figg. But you do, Luna does… what makes us different from them, huh? Why do we remember?”

Tom raises an eyebrow, “I know you know,” he says, bluntly, “I can feel it. Go on, spill.”

He runs it through in his head before saying it outloud, as if putting words to it might make him wrong, somehow, “The Battle,” he says, quietly, “The Battle of Hogwarts. We were all there.”

Riddle stares at him, “I’m pretty sure,” he says, slowly, “Dumbledore was dead. The Malfoy brat got assigned to kill him.”

“I…” Harry swallows, throat too dry, “I used the Resurrection Stone. He was there; in spirit. It’s why… my parents took off. Why there’s no Sirius, no Remus - it’s the only explanation. They… the memories don’t come quite right, so they had an inkling or something that they needed to hide and did so. It’s why I wasn’t there, why when Umbridge did her thing… I heard them screaming - I mean, I always did, but I heard the screaming from this world. They knew someone was coming, and they hid me with Petunia. But my aunt didn’t remember. No hint. Dudley hit eight and kept going like nothing had changed except his present number.”

Riddle’s brown eyes are unreadable. Harry tries to calm down, and then realises that it doesn’t matter. Whatever his face looks like Riddle isn’t reading it - he’s feeling Harry’s every emotion. The turmoil, the  _ hurt _ , the raw loneliness and the dawning realisation, even as the last few pieces of the puzzle click into place.

Because Riddle is sitting there calmly. No anger, no fury, he reminds Harry more of the school boy than the megalomaniac.

“Also you were there,” he says, as if in conclusion, jarring Riddle from his assessment of Harry’s emotions.

“I think we’ve established that,” he says, unimpressed.

“You were there,” Harry repeats, “And yet you weren’t. Voldemort was. Nagini was. Ravenclaw’s diadem was. Hell, we brought Hufflepuff’s cup there; we’ve already established that death might not affect this curse. I was there…” Harry cuts himself off, course corrects, “You were there in  _ pieces, _ Tom, which is probably why your memory’s in pieces too.”

*

Tom wonders why, exactly, he thought the boy was stupid. He’s  _ not _ , he’s surprisingly perceptive. Maybe not book smart, maybe not academically inclined, but he’s put together the clues Tom has left lying behind him like glaring sign posts.

He doesn’t try to deny it. That would be useless, Harry is already too confident in his certainty, “How did you guess?” he asks instead, voice dry, like the whole conversation is boring.

“Knights,” Harry says, and oh, of  _ course _ . “You forgot about Quirrell and the fact that I’d not only found out about your horcruxes, but destroyed most of them.” Indignation flares through Tom, fingers twitching with the urge to do harm and he quells it. He’d missed that,  _ how had he missed that _ , Merlin, maybe this reincarnation thing was a good deal if that was the way Lord Voldemort’s reign was going. “Also,” Harry adds, condemningly, “You just forgot that Draco never succeeded in killing Albus Dumbledore. Snape did.”

“Shit,” Tom says, surprisingly coarse, “Fine. You’re right. I remember but it’s patchy. Happy?”

Harry is--  _ relieved _ ? Tom’s not sure, the boy is surprisingly hard to read. There are  _ so many _ emotions in a snowstorm around him. “It makes a hell of a lot more sense now why you’re so  _ nice _ .”

Tom is almost indignant. He is not  _ nice _ .

He does, unfortunately, understand what Harry means. Huge chunks of his life don’t exist to him. Hogwarts exists in sepia tones, bits of adulthood drift across his mind and he  _ remembers  _ trying to kill Harry but doesn’t remember  _ why.  _ What could possible drive him to do such a thing as kill a one-year-old infant, even one as irritating as Potter?

Had the horcruxes done this, he wonders, caused the split and dissonance in memories? Or if it even more sinister - is this not dissonance at all but realisation and understanding. Had the cracks already existed before in a previous life and this is all that could be salvaged?

Both ideas terrify him; he is meant to be eternal, immortal and all powerful; not an oddly selective amnesiac, and certainly not a  _ teenager _ again.

“Maybe that’s why you’re sixteen,” Harry is squinting at him. Tom resolves to make a stop by an opticians to get him better glasses. “Your soul was too broken to reflect your actual age?” Tom’s withering look stops the speculating; he doesn’t need Potter theorising more disastrous realisations right now. 

“You could probably track down your parent’s will,” he says, dispassionately, determined to throw Potter’s investigative curiosity onto something other than him.

Potter doesn’t appear to care, shrugging carelessly, “Oh, or maybe when you split your soul you didn’t just cut off slivers you actually split it in half. And given the locket, diary and ring were gone that means you only have…” he squints, “One sixteenth of your soul?”

“Potter, that’s not how souls work,” he rubs at his temples, the boy’s whirlwind emotions are fleeting and hard to pin down. Tom has an uncomfortable feeling about this.

“I don’t think you can really talk about knowing how souls work given the mangled mess you made of yours. It’s was fucking  _ unstable,  _ you broke yourself into  _ eight _ pieces.”

Harry’s emotions settle on discomfort, disgust twisted to pity and…

Comfort? Sympathy?  _ Pity _ ? Tom can’t pin it down but it makes him uncomfortable and a little sick just to try. That nagging feeling in his brain grows and he turns slowly to face Harry, “Eight?” he asks.

Horror. Terror. Revulsion and  _ dread _ . What is Potter  _ talking _ about? Why did he say  _ eight _ ?

“Yeah, Dumbledore theorised you wanted seven horcruxes, right, plus yourself--”

Lie lie  _ lie _ . 

Eight pieces, Harry said,  _ unstable _ .

“ _ Tom _ \--” Pity tastes cloying on Tom’s tongue, “Tom--”

“Don’t  _ call me that _ \--” he grabs the boy, fingers curling cruelly into the meat of Harry's shoulder, shoving him back against the lip of the table, "You're lying."

Harry flails, the keyboard clattering to the floor, "I'm not, Tom,  _ don't-- _ "

His other hand closes around Harry's throat. He can feel the hum of the other's vocal cords and Harry stops talking as soon as he presses against the flesh there, well aware that if he's going to get any words out before Tom chokes them to death he'll have to be quick, "Don't you  _ dare _ try to control me," Tom snaps, "I am not one of your pathetic little Gryffindor friends, following you to their death." And oh, that strikes a chord because Potter hurts at those words.

“I’m not, Tom, just let me go. You’re attracting attention--”

“Eight pieces,” Tom repeats, slowly, “You said eight pieces; what the bleeding hell do you  _ mean _ eight pieces--?”

“Everyone’s looking,” Harry chokes out again. His green eyes are wide.  _ Don’t you know _ ? They ask him,  _ haven’t you  _ **_guessed_ ** **?**

“Eight,” he repeats, and he lets go of Harry’s throat to trace the lightning bolt that should be there on Harry’s forehead and the boy  _ freezes _ , ice in his veins and revulsion and horror. Like a fox in the jaws of the hound, like the bear in the trap Harry quivers, warm to touch and pulse racing.

“ _ Let go of me _ ,” Harry enjoys being unpredictable, there’s barely a tensing of emotions than the words are spat out and Tom’s hand uncoils, that horrible awful contentedness to just obey whatever he says. Furious, he takes Harry’s own temper, curls in the boy’s anger,  _ humiliation _ , fear and shock and throws it back in a ball at Harry. The emotional whiplash catches the boy by surprise and he stumbles a little. Serves him right, Tom thinks, the boy feels too much anyway.

Emotions are a great weapon. Tom has realised this, learned this in a way he had never understood before but now--

He’s aware of eyes on them; Harry was right, he’s drawn too much attention. He tears at the emotional wounds in the boy, the  _ hurt and betrayal _ , “And to think,” he mocks, “After everything, Dumbledore still sent you out to die at the right time. Like a sacrificial lamb. His own personal martyr - Merlin, no wonder you’re pissed at him, he strung you up as a human sacrifice.”

Despite the emotions warring in the boy he still manages to find the resolve to glare avada kedavra green eyes at him, “You’re the  _ idiot _ who fell for it,” he snarls, and resolve unfortunately is not an emotion as much as pure stubborn willpower Tom cannot affect. “You destroyed yourself, Tom, how does that feel?”

His blood  _ burns _ , he wants to pin Harry down and cut him open. He wants to pick the boy’s bones clear of secrets, he wants to follow through on the seemingly eternal plan of killing him--

“Excuse me,” a staff member brave enough to get between them steps forwards, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I’ve called security--”

Lie. Tom’s a walking lie detector; legilimency tuned to the emotions instead of the thoughts, but they still betray. The fear and disgust and “You could just say you called the Department of Mutant Affairs,” he sneers.

The woman  _ flinches _ . Harry opens his mouth, as if to talk her out of it but stops at seeing the number of people looking at them. He looks at Tom, as if half-expecting Tom to offer him a hand to his feet but Tom’s lip curls and he turns away. Potter is nothing to him. Less than the dirt beneath his shoe. He has no use for the boy.

He’s  _ nothing _ . Tom would kill him if there were no witnesses, the boy after all isn’t even a horcrux in this reality.

Not that that had stopped him killing the boy before. Memories tumble over each other in his head but he remembers the boy dying. He killed the boy.

Didn’t he?

“Just stay here, someone is coming to deal with this,” the woman is trying to keep them there.

“ _Get_ _out of my way_ ,” and Tom doesn’t have Harry’s powers, but the wave of fear he twists through the woman’s psyche in front of him has her throwing herself out of the way. He’s aware of Harry scrabbling to his feet but doesn’t stop, anger fuelling his walk.

Outside it’s started to drizzle and in true British fashion nobody even notices. Someone wipes at their phone screen as they pass by. Tom twists and starts up the street before any government show up. He is not fleeing - Tom Riddle does not  _ run. _ He evades, he  _ survives _ and he  _ lives _ . His horcruxes were necessary. They were something he had been hurtling towards since he first learned about magic.

But to have gone so far as to  _ not notice the creation of another one _ \--

“Tom?” he’s aware of the whirlwind of emotions, stabilizing now Tom’s no longer influencing him. Harry stops just behind him on the stairs.

“Don’t  _ call _ me that, Potter, how many times--”

“But you’re not  _ Voldemort _ ,” Potter’s a confused mess of something bright and sweet clashing with that temper of his. “And it’s not that bad a name, not really. You’re more Tom than I’ve ever met before. Besides,” his laugh is tinged bitter and full of self-disgust, “I had a part of you inside me for years,  _ Tom _ , I will call you what I like. But you’re not Voldemort. Not anymore, there’s no use deceiving yourself”

“And yet,” his tone is thin ice cracking, “I still shot Umbridge in the head. You’re not a horcrux anymore, sweetheart,” he drawls, “Nothing to get in the way of killing you now.” He contemplates it; there’s a stolen gun in his bag with a box of bullets; he could do it  _ easily _ , mundanes really have perfected the fine art of killing--

There is the sound of sirens wailing. Police. “Guess it can wait until later,” Tom says, spinning around, leaving Harry there on the stairs.

“What-  _ Tom _ \--”

“Good luck,” he shrugs, “You’re on your own.”

The emotional tornado that is Harry doesn’t follow him and Tom doesn’t turn to look.

He doesn’t need Harry Potter.

*

He watches Tom walk away. He  _ knows _ , Harry thinks, Tom  _ knows _ Harry is a horcrux. Was a horcrux. Tenses blur in his head.

He’d reacted both exactly how Harry had expected and not at all. He’d been disbelieving, angry and yet cruel and oddly possessive. And now he was gone, storming off with violence lining every muscle of his body longing. Like a storm on the horizon, the air heavy with thunder unstruck Harry had feared the older boy would lash out.

He  _ hadn’t _ . Still, fleeing,  _ running _ and  _ ditching _ Harry--

His resolve settles; Riddle can do what he wants. Harry doesn’t need him, Harry doesn’t need anyone. The siren wails and Harry jolts into movement, slipping down the stairs and starting off down the street. A few pedestrians give him funny look but for the large part people don’t care. His pace is quick, trying to look unhurried as he moves away from the library.

He doesn’t need another encounter with the DMA. Not now. Not alone.

Not that he needs Riddle.

He twists around a corner, shoulders slumping.  _ Shit _ . What does he do now?

He has zero contacts with any potential allies. He doesn’t even know if he went to somewhere like Grimmauld Place whether it would even be there, let alone be the Black ancestral home in this universe too. Diagon Alley doesn’t exist. Hogwarts doesn’t.

What does?

His parents ran in this world, trying to keep him hidden and separate from the world. They succeeded - Harry lives, and his separation is absolute. For just a moment he  _ hates _ them for that, but he feels the imprint of a cold stone in his hand and he can’t hate them. They gave their lives for him, in every life.

He’ll find Sirius, he resolves. Grimmauld Place should be easy enough to track down, and if that doesn’t work he’ll spread out from there. He’s pretty sure that while he doesn’t remember Hermione’s address, there can’t be  _ that _ many dental practices run by a couple named ‘Granger’.

A flash of movement in his periphery. He twists, heart stuttering. Maybe it’s instinct, honed by years of paranoia and survival, he’s not sure.

Something’s wrong.

He spins around, pace faster, more urgent and almost walks straight into a heavy set body that’s appeared there. “Well lookit what we have here,” someone sneers, just as something crashes into him, sending black clouding his vision.

He really does have the worst luck, he realises.

*

Harry blinks awake with a throbbing headache. His hands are pulled uncomfortably behind him and something hard digs into the soft skin of his wrists and pulls his shoulders back awkwardly. He’s on a soft, carpeted floor that smells of mould.

Voices are talking urgently but quietly over his head. “She won’t be happy, this isn’t who we were meant to bring back--”

“Relax, kid, the boy will be  _ perfect _ \--”

“She wanted you to track down your boss, not some  _ teenager _ .” There’s something familiar about the voice in it’s abstractedess. Harry blinks. There’s hazy light spilling from some old curtains. A ‘For Sale’ sign is propped up in the window, the text all backwards to Harry’s gaze. “Oh look,” the voice says, brightly, “Boy’s awake. Hi there.”

Harry’s head throbs as someone grabs him, tugging him up and propping him up against the wall like a doll. He squints at the man crouched in front of him. “Is he like you?” the man asks the other person in the room, tongue darting out to lick his lips, “Does he have extra memories?”

The second figure moves into place. Dark hair, cragged features. Harry sees the posters, corners peeling, faces crazed and  _ flinches _ back. “Yeah,” Rodolphus Lestrange laughs, “Yeah, he remembers, don’t you Potter?”

The man in front of him pushes back Harry’s fringe, tilting Harry’s head back, “You said he had a scar. There ain’t no scar, just some pretty green eyes--”

Lestrange shrugs, “World’s different. Shift back, let him see you.”

The man in front of him grins as his face just--  _ melts _ . Harry thinks it’s the head injury for a moment, before he realises that no, the man’s face is shimmering in a distorted mockery of Polyjuice Potion. His hair pales to straw blonde and eyes fade to grey. His face is unfamiliar, despite how well Harry had known the man. He’d known the facade. Barty Crouch had always been more of a concept, a Death Eater hidden under a mask.

Harry feels the breath leave him in a rush, recognition frosting over him with cold cruel tongues of ice. “ _ You _ . But you--- you don’t--”

“No, I don’t remember,” Crouch shrugs, guessing what he’s going to say. Harry tries to pull away, but can’t with the wall at his back. “Doesn’t matter,” Barty shrugs, “From the sounds of it I had a shit life there and shit life here. Daddy’s got high expectations, I do  _ everything _ I can but it’s never enough to impress him and he still calls the fucking cops on me.”

“Calm down, Bart,” Rodolphus chides, “We got you out of jail, didn’t we, even though you didn’t remember. Stop whinging.”

Crouch straightens, taking a step back to assess him. Harry can feel the scrutinizing gaze like ice, his breath stutters, he tries to manoeuvre, to get his feet beneath him. His hands are useless, bound, but he can still run, can still use his  _ words _ \-- “He’s not much, is he?” Crouch sniffs, dismissively. “Rodolphus has a gift for tracking down anyone he puts his mind to. He  _ was _ looking for his boss who apparently is going to be all for mutant superiority  _ if _ we manage to find him. Sounds like some leader, huh, this Voldemort?”

Even without his memories, the idea has sparked something in Barty’s gaze. He looks  _ thrilled _ . Harry feels sick, because they’d been  _ so close _ . It’s possible they even  _ saw _ Tom, didn’t recognise him… Recognised Harry instead and Harry  _ like an idiot _ just let himself get knocked out--

There is the taste of bitter almonds on his tongue. He reaches for his power, even through the pulsing headache. “ _ Let _ \--”

The door to the dingy terrace house slams open. “That would be the others now,” Rodolphus grins, yellow and leering.

_ “Barty, let me go _ ,” Harry snarls out, and the shapeshifter actually listens, has Harry on his feet and is reaching for the zip ties when something barrels into him. Too late, Harry thinks, he was too fucking slow, too  _ late _ \--

“What is it?” a woman demands, “What did you find?”

“Not Potter?” the force that hit him and had thrown Barty to a heap on the floor holds Harry by the scruff of his neck, shoving him forwards. He stumbles, knees heavy and barely managing to stay standing. “No, it is, I recognise that  _ smell _ . Rodolphus you’re  _ slipping _ , this isn’t the Dark Lord.”

“No,” say the fourth person, the woman, stepping forwards and into Harry’s view. Horror claws at his heart. “It’s  _ better _ . Rodolphus found us Harry Potter.” Bellatrix Lestrange smiles. It is not a nice smile; it is one that promises pain, blood and a slow death. Her eyes glint with silver mercury madness. “Hello ickle Potter, did you miss us?”


	4. situation genocide

“Rodolphus was always good at tracking people down. Managed to find us the Longbottoms a lifetime ago. Now it’s his mutation. So when we started to remember about - oh, a few weeks ago - we decided to hunt down our Lord and continue his work in this brave new world. And what does he find… but you. So tell us, Potter - where is our Lord?”

“Dead,” Harry sneers. True, from one perspective.

Voldemort is gone.

Bellatrix whirls around, “Don’t lie!” she screams, “Rodolphus pinned him down to this region, he’s here! He lives!”

“ _ Calm down _ ,” Harry manages to get out, wonders how much power he’d have to pack into the word ‘sleep’ to drop them all at once when a cuff across the head stills all thoughts of that. Bellatrix blinks at him, calm in the moment before realisation hits.

“Gag him,” Rodolphus snaps, “He did the same thing to Barty, some trick with his words--”

_ “Stop _ \--” Harry really needs to get better at targeting multiple people at once. His syllables of puppeteering are cut off when the man holding him shoves a cloth into his mouth and tugs it tight. His head is twisted up and he finally gets a glimpse of the final member of the quartet - Fenrir Greyback  _ leers _ as he ties the gag. The material cuts cruelly into the corners of his mouth, cloth choking his tongue to silence.

“Cute trick, baby Potter,” Greyback sneers. His teeth are fangs and his features are twisted as if caught half shifted to a wolf. He is the first Harry has encountered whose mutation is not secret and hidden away. “You might live longer if you keep that tongue in check.”

“You dare?” Bellatrix has composed herself, thrown off Harry’s compulsion, “You  _ dare _ ? Ickle baby Potter thinks he can use his mutation on us?” She throws off her husbands reassuring hand, stalking towards Harry. Greyback sensibly moves out of her way, and without the wolf mutant keeping him standing gravity tugs him down to his knees. Thin fingers dig into Harry’s shoulder, trace his cheek and nails scrape harshly against skin, “No pretty scar now, is there?” Bellatrix croons, “I’m sure when Rodolphus does his fucking job and tracks down our Lord he can give you another one. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Harry gags at the cloth in his mouth, can form sounds but no words, his power sits uselessly along the tense arch of his back. The blood in his veins turns lemon-sour at the realisation that he’s not getting out of this one. Dark strands of her hair brush over his cheek as she leans over him, clasping him in an almost kind embrace. Nails run cruelly along the skin of his shoulder, blood chasing after the pin point pressure.

“Nu uh,” the woman croons in his ears, “No more of that little trick of yours. You remember, don’t you Potter?”

Harry tries to slam his head into her, but she grips his chin bruisingly tight.

“Oh yes, definitely remembers. How  _ precious _ .”

Horror creeps in and makes a home, like woodworm rotting the floor beneath his feet. Because if his theory is right; if everyone from the Battle of Hogwarts regain their memories…

Then it’s not just his friends. It’s his enemies too. He should have known that. Voldemort remembered, after all.

“What are we going to do with him?” Crouch asks, pacing around Rodolphus and Greyback, “Kill him? Turn him in to the Mutant Affairs Office?”

“Nah,” Fenrir growls out, “Where’s the fun in that? Gonna keep ourselves a little manipulator pet.”

Crouch arches one eyebrow, clearly skeptical about their ability to make Harry do anything for them. Lestrange scoffs, “We’re gonna keep him and give him to the Dark Lord,” he announces, like it’s a grand plan, “When we find him, we’ll present Potter and reform the Death Eaters. We’ll wage a war against the mundanes and reign victorious.”

Harry--

Harry wants to  _ laugh _ . He manages to choke it down - it comes out muffled anyway and Bellatrix just looks gleeful, “Don’t like the sound of that, do you? Are you  _ scared _ of the Dark Lord, Potter? He killed you once, he can kill you again just as easily, especially when you’re wrapped up so pretty for him.”

Harry’s ears ring, tinnitus like peeling bells. Voldemort… Voldemort is dead, he thinks, the best they’ll find is Tom. Tom with just over half his soul stuck together like a bad jigsaw puzzle where you can see the overall picture, but there are so many pieces missing. Tom who the Death Eaters only just missed, probably wouldn’t have recognised either. Tom who almost certainly will kill Harry when he next sees him, if only because Harry had been his horcrux once and that? That is unacceptable.

Tom will kill him. Of that he has no doubt. Tom will kill him and march off with his wide-eyed followers to situation genocide.

He makes a muffled noise of complaint, but his words don’t form around the gag. Not to anything comprehensible, usable, and he tries to kick Bellatrix off him, only for a shove to send him sprawling on the ground. “Oh dear,” Bellatrix clicks his tongue at him, index finger cocked disapprovingly at him. “What’s the matter? Can’t control anyone? I can’t believe you of all people got the _Imperius_ _Curse_. I wonder what our Lord got? The Killing Curse? Maybe he completes our little triad, wouldn’t that be poetic?”

Harry is half-way to righting himself from where he is sprawled on the dusty floor of the apartment, torn between wondering what on earth the Death Eaters would thinking finding out that their precious Lord got  _ emotional empathy _ when her words hit fully.

“There it is,” Bellatrix’s smile grows wide, “Yeah, see; you get the Imperius Curse and I? I get the other one.” She laughs and it breaks off into a cackle as Harry realises what she means, the same time the pain hits.

It is a hundred needles in every muscle, tendon and bone. It is acid being injected directly into his blood. It is fire eating him alive with clawing iron brand fingers reaching into his chest and scraping out pieces of his heart. It  _ hurts _ . There is no other word for it; Harry had forgotten how much it hurts. The Cruciatus is pain; eternal, everlasting until all you know is the  _ hurt _ . It came before you, it will come after, it will be buried in your bones until after you are dead and rotted.

It builds and builds until there is no other way to cope, to last through it than to let it out.

Harry  _ screams _ .

*

It’s easier to think without Harry’s emotions racketing around in his head. Tom can block out the rest of the world that presses in on him but Harry manages to slide around shields and weave his way in. Some distance between them and Tom’s own emotions flatline back to their base; anger, ambition, hatred and obsession.

It should be easier then, to sort out his priorities.

So why can he not decide what he needs to do next? Why is it not obvious?

This is Tom Marvolo Riddle with most of his soul; sane and youthful and he’s the same age as Harry because  _ of the piece of his soul that had been in Harry _ .

Hell is empty, Tom thinks, because all the devils are here.

He can’t believe he hadn’t worked it out because the moment he had stopped to think about it; there had been only one conclusion. And of course Potter wouldn’t tell him, would probably have sooner bitten his own tongue off than revealed the bare raw bloody truth.

He’d turned Harry into a  _ horcrux _ .

Unintentionally, more of a proto-pseudo horcrux than an actual one, but the boy had housed a piece of his soul nonetheless. Tom had fucked up his soul so badly that the pieces had just  _ flaked off _ without him even realising it.

And Tom had killed him, regardless.

Oh he’d been so  _ predictable _ , so  _ foolish _ , Dumbledore had played him like a fucking  _ pawn _ .

It  _ burns _ .

Now here he is; a lifetime away from those mistakes but they still haunt his heels like the wild hunt, forever chasing him. They dig their claws in deep and maybe they were right, Tom thinks with horror, maybe Voldemort had been a  _ monster _ . To go so far as to lose pieces of himself without even realising it… Maybe this second life is a blessing in disguise. He’s alive, breathing and he’s  _ whole _ .

Well… as whole as he can get considering the mangled mess he’d made of his soul. He remembers nothing of the diadem. Not how he made it, where he found it; nothing. Most of his memories are from when he was younger, when his soul was more stable but occasionally pieces from near the Battle flash through his mind.

But that doesn’t, he think, explain the image of a fat man calling him ‘Freak’.

It’s  _ Potter’s _ memory. Except… no…

It’s undeniable  _ his  _ memory. It’s from Potter’s perspective but it belongs to him and in his head he hears Dumbledore ask him ‘ _ from whose perspective did you see this’  _ and Potter answers ‘ _ I was the snake’ _ and he has never heard Dumbledore say that in his life and yet--

Horror.  _ Rage _ . Anger is an emotion of his own that Tom is intimately familiar with.

It’s impossible and yet it’s the answer he should have realised. The boy had even spoken  _ parseltongue _ , how had he not seen it? How had he been so far gone so as not to see his own reflection in those green eyes?

It’s not there anymore. The boy is unscarred, Tom’s soul is intact, albeit cracked and missing bits. But almost as if he can feel the remnants of where his soul had once lived, he is drawn to the boy.

No, Harry is important. He had realised this subconsciously already, and now he understands the reasoning he is loathe to let him slip through his fingers.

There might be no soul link between them anymore, but there is  _ something _ .

He pauses, in the middle of London. Around him the emotions of the busy city brush against him. They could be overwhelming and there is a kind of hyperstimulation that comes with sensing so many after a year of blank indifference. Tom’s used to brushing them aside, and he cares nothing for them - they are not people he knows.

He expands his range, trying to seek in on Harry’s emotions. There’s a certain… flavour isn’t the right word but for lack of language to describe Tom’s extra sense it will do. Harry’s emotions are unique and Tom would be able to know them anywhere. He expands his range further; a headache is budding behind his skull now. Bone can barely contain the pressure building and it’s with relief he picks up the vibrancy that is Harry.

The boy is impossible to miss. He’s just so… so  _ vibrant _ . The swirling whirlwind had been thick and heady and Tom’s own fury had not helped - he’d had to get out of there, away from Potter and his damn emotions. Tom hadn’t known it was possible to feel so damn  _ much _ . The last thing he wanted was Potter’s  _ judgement _ clouding him from all sides.

Now he misses it, that colourful edge to his feelings sparking at everything like a dancing flame. It’s warm at the edge of his consciousness as he picks up Harry, probably blocks away yet still able to pin the boy down. It’s soothing, even muted as it is at this distance. Familiar, somehow, like a half-forgotten dream. Like something he is used to being there; mind pressed against his own that to not have it there leaves a noticeable gap.

He closes his eyes, contemplating his next move. He  _ could _ go get the boy, as irritating as he is and as many secrets as Potter seems to hold the boy is useful. Harry is  _ important _ and Tom refuses to believe it’s  _ just _ because of the soul connection they had once had. The warm buffer of Harry’s thoughts dims a bit and he opens his eyes, realising that he’s stopped walking.

Something’s wrong, he realises, even as Harry’s emotions twist to horror, fear and that particular brand of righteous anger that is so  _ unique  _ to Harry. Tom stiffens, even as there is a definite spike of  _ pain _ .

Harry’s pain-hate- _ loathing _ -terror hit him like a punch in the gut and he’s moving before he even realises it.

He needs to get to Harry.

*

Harry screams. And screams and screams and--

The hurt is gone so suddenly he gasps at the loss of it. It feels like he had been born from the pain, that it was all he knows and the world comes back to him in bits and pieces. He's on the ground, sweaty and dishevelled and his throat is raw.

Bellatrix leans over him, tone a croon as she reaches out, trailing one fingernail down Harry's jawline. "That's right," she simpers, "You get the Imperius, I get the Cruciatus." Harry shudders involuntary, nerve endings still on fire and her nail curls cruelly, digging into flesh and tearing through the skin sharply enough to draw blood.

He tries to flinch away, curl in on himself. He’s one open raw and exposed nerve still burning and an involuntary tremor runs through him. The carpet is damp, dew on the grass of a graveyard, mould of a rotting house as Bellatrix peers down at him.

“Not so brave now, are you?” Fenrir says with a fanged grin.

“Don’t damage the goods,” Rodolphus says, “He belongs to the Dark Lord.”

Bellatrix doesn’t appear to listen, “Hmmm,” she ponders, “He would, if you  _ had managed to track him down _ .”

“I told you, I got close. I must have, but Potter was the only one there. I’ll try again, just find me an up to date map; I’ll stand a better chance--”

There’s a slamming of the door, all four Death Eaters whirl around. Harry twists slightly on the floor, muscles sore. A dark shadow has appeared in the door to the hallway, brushing rainwater off their shoulders, “Ah,” the new arrival says, smooth voice scathing as he eyes up the room, London twang under British English, “I see. Did you all forget about me so soon?”

The voice is achingly familiar and Harry forces stiff muscles to move, tries to push away the aftereffects of the pseudo-Cruciatus.

“Who’re you?” Fenrir says gruffly, voice nearly a snarl and eyes flashing animalistic yellow. His nails are lengthening into claws and he takes a threatening step forwards only to drop with an almost-yelp as the new arrival turns his gaze to him.

“You don’t recognise me, Fenrir? I admit, I look  _ amazing _ since you last saw me. I didn’t think the mundanes would appreciate my old appearance--”

On the ground Harry's breathing picks up in panic, because this is it, he's dead. He's going to die soon, now and although he can't form the words he can form the thoughts, and he reaches for his oil slick power to try and slide it mentally through the air and drape it across those nearest--

Bellatrix’ breathing hitches and she stares at Tom Riddle’s face as if seeking out remnants of Voldemort. Whatever she’s looking for she must find because she hits the ground so hard Harry hears the crack her knees make when they hit the carpet, “My lord,” she breathes in wonder, “You--”

“I’ve been… reborn, I guess you could say,” Tom’s smirk tilts up lopsided, hair curling into his eye only to be tossed back in a familiar, irritated gesture, “Haven’t we all, Bella?”

“My lord?” Rodolphus stares.

“This is him?” Barty asks, very out of the loop, “This is Voldemort?”

Harry can’t feel whatever emotion Riddle chucks at them but Rodolphus whimpers and joins his wife on the floor. Fenrir quails back and Barty shudders, eyes widening with excitement.

There’s a moment he can  _ feel _ strange emotions that aren’t his own. They’re foreign, not even making a pretense of slipping into his thoughts, like someone walking past him and knocking against his shoulder. A flash of reassurance, of violent glee and then anticipation and it’s gone. Harry shudders, managing to heft himself into a sitting position. His hands are still zip-tied behind him, the hard plastic beginning to rub his skin raw. The gag is wet with saliva and he swallows nervously.

“We found you,” Bellatrix has practically prostrated herself on the floor, “My lord… as soon as we remembered our mission we sought you out. Rodolphus tracked you to London, and then we found Potter. We--”

“You  _ what _ \--” Riddle’s gaze is dismissive as he glances over them, face cruel. A shadow of Voldemort flickers beneath his face, “Did you think you had any right to touch what is mine?” Bellatrix quivers, but it looks like it’s more from excitement than fear. Tom clicks his tongue, “You have indeed found me Harry Potter,” the dry amusement probably gets missed by the Death Eaters, “He does look so pretty tied up, doesn’t he?”

Betrayal curls in Harry's stomach. The anger is hot slick and gasoline lit on fire and-- Harry glares at Tom but saves away his insults for later. He focuses on reaching out with his power. It’s a heat against his spine, a taste in the back of his throat and in his head. He can’t speak, he can’t use words, but maybe it’s like silent casting, he thinks.

Maybe if he thinks hard enough he doesn’t need his words.

“We heard Dumbledore was around,” Rodolphus says, eagerly, “But like usual the old man is useless--”

“Mutant rights?” Barty interrupts, “That’s what the guys say you’re advocating. Magical rights except whatever world you fuckers remember doesn’t exist so… mutant superiority? Because we  _ are _ better. The mundanes are the lesser species, it’s evolution, baby.”

If Tom is at all insulted or bemused by a Barty Crouch Jr who doesn’t remember being a once devoted follower of his he doesn’t show it, “That’s right,” he says, quietly, “The mundanes who fear us, lock us up and experiment on us, who try to  _ cure _ us…”

“Are you  _ sure _ you’re Voldemort?” Fenrir growls suddenly, “You look like a  _ school boy _ …” the wolf man has stood, claws curling threateningly.

“Don’t  _ say his name _ ,” Bellatrix hisses, but doubt crosses Rodolphus’ face. Whatever emotions Tom’s inflicting upon them he’s got the same problem Harry does.

He can’t maintain it on more than one person. Not for long.

Tom shrugs it off, "An unintentional side effect from the battle, but do not doubt me, I am all the stronger for it."

“Prove it,” Fenrir challenges, the wolf in his genes refusing to bow it’s head. “Kill the boy.”

Harry ignores the words, their meaning, the realisation that he’s running out of time sparks desperation as he tries to impose his will mentally onto Crouch, he’s compelled the guy once, he searches out that familiar feeling to try and do so again--

“You  _ filthy mongrel _ \--”

“He’s kinda right,” Tom interrupts Bellatrix who has half-launched herself at Greyback, only to be caught by her husband, “I should get rid of Potter, right, but see the thing is I’ve kind of grown fond of the boy. He’s useful. I want him alive, and preferably healthy."

The Death Eaters stare at him. Barty shrugs, “Sure,” he says, not seeing the problem, “We keep the boy, he’s nice to look at I guess---”

“NO!” Bellatrix shrieks, “He has to die, my lord, please, let me! The Potter boy is a nuisance, an irritation… you want him dead, remember?”

“Are you questioning me, Bella?” Tom’s voice is a knife’s edge. A straight razor unfolded against a throat, blood droplet sitting on the stainless steel.

The woman’s expression wavers. Dark curls frame her bewilderment, her passion and devotion once so focused on the man that to be confronted by the boy she hesitates.

“I have an arrangement,” Tom tells the room at large, “And quite frankly Harry Potter’s cooperation and alliance is far more useful and appealing to me than the whole of you lot combined.”

Several things happen at once.

Fenrir Greyback steps forwards, a vicious “I  _ knew it _ ,” on his tongue.

Bellatrix lets out a loud  _ “No _ ,” that takes pointers from Walburga Black’s screeching.

Harry finally manages to slide his gasoline slick power over Barty,  _ attack him _ coursing through his brain.

And Barty  _ moves _ .

*

Tom feels Harry’s triumph. That’s his signal, his clue, the moment he knows to go for the gun he’s stolen from Umbridge and draw it. Rodolphus startles, moving to intervene and Tom curbs him cruelly with a twist of emotions. It’s fleeting, he’s struggling to keep more than one person under his influence, he’s  _ out of practice _ .

Tom wants to curl his lip at the weakness.

Whatever Harry’s coercing Barty into doing it must work given by the glee in Harry’s thoughts as Barty lunges for Greyback with a knife. The wolf man twists with a snarl, features becoming even more wolf-like as he does. The knife makes a horrible sound as it hits flesh and with a furious snarl Fenrir tears it out tossing it to one side carelessly.

Tom turns his attention back to Bella, gun unwavering, “You can do this the easy way, Bella,” he says, slowly, “And  _ kneel _ ,” he manipulates the emotions, amplifying the fear, the  _ devotion _ and Bellatrix trembles. “Or we can do this the even easier way and  _ I can make you _ . Come on. Make my day.”

“You’re not my lord,” Bellatrix looks distraught, enough for one to almost feel sorry for her were Tom one for sympathy. As it is his empathy throws it into perspective, the sheer overwhelming doubt and disappointment and the  _ resolve _ \--

Tom pulls the trigger at the same time her gaze hardens. Too slow, he thinks, and he still takes a hit of her mutant power, of fire clawing its way free of his bones. The gunshot goes wide, hits Rodolphus instead. The Death Eater lets out a yelp of pain. Tom stumbles with a gasp, whole body  _ quivering _ at the curse. He tastes blood in his mouth. He’s bitten his tongue.

Bellatrix is staring at him with horror, not even glancing sideways at her bleeding husband, too fixated on him, “You’re not Voldemort,” Bellatrix utters the name like a curse and a salvation, “The Dark Lord was so much more than whoever you are.”

“You’re right,” Tom spits out blood, “I’m not him. I’m  _ better _ . I’m  _ more _ than he ever was; he was a fragment, a broken shattered cracked shard and I? I’m as whole as I’m ever going to get and that  _ galls _ you--”

“Shut UP!” she shrieks, and another flash of pain hits him, and he actually lowers the gun, muscles shrivelling under his skin as insects burrow through his flesh and lightning buries seeping hands like needles through his brain--

“Stop _.  _ Bellatrix _ ,  _ **_stop_ ** _.  _ The rest of you _ freeze. Don’t  _ **_move_ ** _ , don’t  _ **_speak_ ** _. _ ”

The power lifts like a breath of cool air on burnt skin. Tom opens eyes he hadn’t realised he closed to see Harry pulling himself to his feet. The bloodstained knife Greyback had dropped hangs loosely between his fingers, zip ties cut through and gag on the floor. Harry’s words sit in the air like a heat haze and he can see Bellatrix straining uselessly against it. Rodolphus gains that hazy look as if under Imperius and stops trying to stem his bleeding bullet wound while Barty and Fenrir leap apart. Barty looks a bit worse for wear, clawed up along one side by Greyback’s animal claws. The wolf man himself is bleeding heavily from where Barty stabbed him.

Tom steps forwards, and it’s with enough purpose that Harry flinches, despite everything. That horrible omnipresent  _ doom _ hangs over him again, like he’s still expecting Tom to actually kill him.

Instead Tom just offers his hand which Harry takes, as if half in a daze. He pulls the younger boy up, fingers brushing over the butterfly flutter at his wrists, bruises already forming in a line from where the fool boy had struggled against unforgiving plastic. Harry almost falls into Tom, breath stuttering and emotions sinking back into that familiar whirlwind. Wonder, confusion, wariness, disgust, relief--

“Are you okay?” Tom asks.

“Yes,” Harry’s words are coarse and rough, but strong.

“So stubborn,” Tom muses, brushing away the hair strands that had once hid a lightning scar, “Precious little horcrux.” He pulls away, leaving Harry to his  _ confusion-indignation-anger _ because he knows, just for an instance, that there had been a mistuned note of satisfaction.

He turns to where his former Knights kneels.

“Now,” he hums, “What are we going to do with you?”

*

The knife hangs loosely from Harry’s fingers. His ungainly struggle to grab it, to cut himself free with both hands tied behind his back and then rip out the gag in time to slide venomous words over the Death Eaters.

He still half expects death at Tom’s hands, but it doesn’t come. Tom pulls him to his feet and Harry almost falls into him, the old boy warm, solid, heart-beating next to him. Tom’s staring at him, but it’s not with murder in his eyes. It’s something different, still as sharp and metal-cold but as if Harry is something precious or beloved.

Harry shoves Tom off him. “Don’t kill them,” he says, “Barty doesn’t even remember--”

Tom shrugs carelessly, “True,” he hums, gaze flickering over the four of them, “But do you really want to leave Bellatrix to do her own thing? Besides, Lestrange looks like he’s dying anyway. Greyback doesn’t look much better.”

The cruel woman is staring at Tom with horror and betrayal on her face. “You’re not--” she manages to choke through Harry’s power, spread thin over four people.  _ “ _ My  _ lord _ .” Her gaze flashes to Harry, full of fury and indignation.

“They didn’t remember until about a month ago,” Harry says, quietly, “And I don’t think it’s full. Flashes. That stupid  _ knowing _ that everything is wrong…”

Tom hums, “That makes sense. I mean - if Bellatrix Lestrange remembered everything the moment she hit her teens then I have no doubt there would be a lot more people dead.”

Harry looks back to where the Death Eaters are and can’t help but agree. “It’s righting the means,” he says, something he’d heard Hermione say once.

_ “Please _ ,” Bellatrix forces out.

“Shut up,” Tom snaps, eyeing her as one would a stranger. Harry wonders what Riddle actually knows about, how much he actually remembers. He reaches for the gun but that would be messy, bloody,  _ cruel _ and too easy.

“I know what to do with her,” Harry finds himself speaking up. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say until he does, but it slips out like it’s the most natural thing ever. Like it’s  _ years _ in the making, ever since he learned what happened to Neville’s parents. After Sirius. After the Battle and Bellatrix throwing around killing curses like candy. He drops into a crouch in front of her, “ _ Find the highest spot you can _ ,” he says, “Don’t stop, don’t hesitate, don’t kill anyone on the way,  _ don’t say anything _ .” He sees her visible gulp as the words talk hold, sink into her psyche and bury their roots, “And once you’re there…” he finishes, “I want you to  _ throw yourself off _ .”

There are more than one ways to trip to your death.

Tom's laugh is exhilarated and thrilled, "You never cease to surprise me.”

*

Bellatrix Lestrange's body is cold and very definitely dead. Despite the pallor to her corpse and the way her dark curls lie limp she is somehow more threatening than she was in life, and Hermione is half convinced she will leap off the table at them.

“How did she die?” Lupin asks, stiffly.

"She threw herself off a building," the coroner tells them, "Suicide. They found her husband shot up in a house half a mile away, looks like she shot him and then found the highest point around. Should those kids really be in here?"

Lupin hustles Ron and Hermione out before more questions can be asked. Outside Molly and Kingsley stand, faces grim, “It’s definitely Bellatrix,” Lupin says, “Sirius has gone to chase any evidence and links they made at the station…”

“No Potter?” Kingsley asks, ponderingly, “No Voldemort? Just her?”

Ron’s face is twisted into disgust, “Just her. And her husband who she shot. She threw herself off the building, apparently, fourteen floors and smack,” he claps his hands together and Hermione flinches.

“Ronald!” Molly scolds.

“I’m not actually fifteen, Mum!” Ron whines, even as she shoos Ron and Hermione towards the shops she’d left Ginny and Luna at, refusing to let the younger two girls into the morgue. “But Mum, we want to find Harry too, please--”

“Not now!”

Ron looks about to argue with his mother but he notices the way Hermione is violently shaking. There are stills times she thinks she is just a normal mundane schoolgirl with an occasional propensity for setting bullies on fire. The lack of magic has not changed the way she grew up with her best friend made of paper and ink, a suddenness to hurt and a breach between herself and other people that she approaches armed with knowledge and words that are never enough to endear herself to friends.

Fifteen schools in seven years; her parents had kept moving her, trying to keep her safe, and that was before the memories hit her--

“Hey,” Ron grabs her hand, a warm solid lifeline tying her down, “It’s okay.”

“Is it?” she sucks in a shaky breath, “Harry could be dead. If Voldemort got to him--"

"He's not with Voldemort."

The bushy-haired girl turns to look at Luna, "What?" An edge of hope lines her voice.

Luna looks up, too much knowledge in her eyes, "Harry's not with Voldemort," she says, and there's complete confidence in her words before she blinks and whatever force possessed her fades, becomes less intense, more Luna, "Did you know blibbering humdingers don't exist in this universe, but nargles do?"

Hermione is still a strung out violin string and it's Ron who lays a hand on her shoulder, "Harry will be fine," he says, "He's gotta know we're looking for him; we'll find him."

Hermione worries at her lip with her too large front teeth. No magic exists to make them smaller, but she's grown almost fond of them now, "Does he though?" she asks, "You know Harry - convinced he's got to go it alone. Imagine remembering and you're alone, no idea if anyone else knows anything and no way to contact anyone. I don't know what I'd have done if McGonagall hadn't found me. I still can't believe things changed enough that Dumbledore couldn't track down the Dursley's..."

"You're really worrying about Harry Potter?" Ginny says from where she'd come over to talk to Luna, "It's Harry, we'll find him in a month or two deep in the biggest spot of trouble in the country and he'll be doing just fine, you know him. Have more faith."

Hermione does have faith, that's the problem. She has faith that Harry will find the biggest problem around and make it his, and she just knows he's doing that, probably right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Harry’s powers are terrifying and overpowered and one day the boy is going to wake up and realise that. Tom, less Voldemort and more Riddle, cannot be the boy’s enemy the day that happens because right now he does not doubt this boy could and would kill him.]


	5. swallow the sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some bits in here are a bit messy because they got written in later once I established plot, I'll try and fix it up later. Enjoy!

“Aren’t you a little young to be drinking?”

“Bartender thinks I’m eighteen,” Harry says, “My non-existent ID says so.” He takes another determined drink from the beer. Despite sharing the name it’s nowhere near as nice as butterbeer, but there’s something satisfying about the slightly bitter taste to it.

“How old are you anyway? Thirteen?”

“I’m  _ fourteen _ ,” Harry snaps, irritably, twisting to look at Barty Crouch who seems to think his faux-kidnapping of Harry and loyalty to a man in a life he doesn’t remember gives him the right to follow them around. He’s shifted - he looks like himself but younger, nineteen and not in his thirties. His straw blonde hair reflects the few lights in the dim bar, washing out the man’s figure and making him look almost translucent. “Also I turn fifteen in… what month are we in? June? Next month, I’m fifteen next month.”

“Someone’s optimistic,” Barty smirks, scooping up a tumbler from the bar. Harry’s pretty sure it’s not even his drink.

“Besides, I’m mentally thirty-one,” Harry says, somehow feeling the need to justifying his compulsion on the bartender.

“That,” Tom appears behind him, “That is not how it  _ works _ , Potter, two childhoods do not equate to adulthood.” Harry blinks, trying to work out if Tom is calling him a child or just being pedantic with his words.

“I hope you trip and fall in a sewer,” he retorts, but Tom just looks smug, like Harry’s proven his point. Harry settles for nursing his beer, taking another sip as if he can drown his problems. As if he can forget what they did.

Bellatrix is dead. She threw herself off a block of flats, Harry heard they had to scrape pieces of her off the sidewalk. Bellatrix is dead and it’s a suicide, the news declare. Murder-suicide of mutant couple. Murder-suicide but Harry knows the truth; it’s just murder and more murder.

Tom pulls a face, probably sensing the guilt, “Bellatrix,” he says, neatly plucking Harry’s beer from his hands and ignoring Harry’s indignant yelp, “Bellatrix got what she deserved. And Rodolphus wasn’t you, I’m the one who shot him but he probably deserved it. I’m sure they had many heinous crimes to their names…” a pause, a tilt of the head, “Didn’t they kill the Longbottoms?”

“They  _ tortured them _ to insanity,” Harry corrects, morosely, “But close enough. That doesn’t explain why he’s stalking us.” He jerks a finger at where Barty is pilfering someone else’s unattended drink. “It’s not like Greyback stuck around.”

“That,” Tom takes a sip of the beer and wrinkles his face, the taste obviously not what he was expecting, “That is because the wolf has survival instincts and without Bellatrix has no intention of bowing to someone who looks sixteen.”

“You  _ are _ sixteen,” Harry argues.

“More like forty, give or take a few memories--”

“Double childhoods do  _ not _ count,” Harry snaps, but Tom’s smirking, clearly teasing, clearly-- it’s disconcerting, Tom Riddle  _ mocking _ him. Harry glares and tries to snatch the beer back, but Tom passes it on to Barty. This whole thing is disconcerting, Harry thinks, along with that deep rooted confusion of  _ why did Tom comes back for him _ .

“Your angst is giving me a headache,” Tom says, plainly, “Stop it. Barty is here because I asked him here; his dad’s a mutant who works in the government, he’s acquired some useful contacts. Both mutant and otherwise.”

“Contact?” he stares, “Contacts for what?”

“You want to continue running around with no name, ID, money,  _ nothing _ ?”

“I managed fine when I was ten,” Harry retorts. 

There’s a blank stare from Tom who doesn’t look impressed, “And yet you still got picked up by the DMA. No. Barty here knows someone who can get us the documents we need.”

Barty spins around on the stool next to them, “S’long as you and Riddle are prepared to use those nifty skills of yours I can hook you up with some, on the condition you get me extra. Never know when fake IDs are needed when you’re a mutant.”

“Come along, Potter. Let’s go get our identities back. Enough with the  _ guilt, already _ .”

Harry wonders how to begin to explain that he feel guilty, but not because of what they did.

He feels guilty that he feels nothing at all. 

*

Albus Dumbledore sighs and stares at the piles of paper on his desk. It reminds him too vividly of the files at the mutant rehabilitation centre for his liking, the brown folders with sheafs of paper, of information in each about the various children under his care. The school he opened is not Hogwarts, no matter how much they all might dream it to be Hogwarts. It is a sanctuary though, a haven for those like him.

For mutants.

He closes his mind, memories swirling. He wonders if they were always there, buried in his head and he just didn’t see them or if something triggered them. If something sparked the match that lit the fire, illuminated light over the past. He ponders, and not for the first time, why he remembers while to the majority of those who recall their past life he had been dead almost a full year.

There’s a pattern; he just hasn’t worked it out yet. It will come to him though, of that he has no doubt. He drops the file collection in a locked drawer, resolving to find some way of encrypting it. The last thing he wants is for the government to get their hands on it; the damage they could do… the damage they have already done…

“Sir,” Hermione Granger is saying, sitting across from him with what looks like half the Weasley clan, “We want permission to go look for Harry. We know he must be out there somewhere, and we want to look for him. None of us are dowsers of any kind but surely there must be a mutant who can find people. And if not then we look - the Dursley’s… the…” her voice trails off cold, much like the trail for her missing friend.

“And what will you do if you find him?” Dumbledore asks, “What if he doesn’t remember? What if he doesn’t want to come back?”

“That’s bullshit,” the youngest Weasley snaps.

“Ginny!”

“What, Ron, it’s true and you were going to say it too, don’t deny it! Of course Harry remembers - we all remember! We need to find him! What if he ends up in another facility? What if… what if he  _ dies _ ,  _ again-- _ ”

Her voice breaks on the last word, and everybody, even Dumbledore flinches at the harsh truth of that. Because that is, apparently, one thing that everyone can agree upon.

Harry Potter had died. His sacrificial lamb had walked to the slaughter and the guilt--

It claws its way up his throat and chokes him. Hermione’s eyes are accusing, and the wooded arms of the chair are smoking slightly under her hands. Ron nudges her, and she pulls her hands away, looking mortified. Their powers are still young, temperamental and uncontrolled. They still have those moments when they go for wands, when their mouth forms spells and their minds reach for magic instead of their new powers. They’ll grow into them though, and he has no doubt they’ll be ferocious when they do.

“At the moment, Miss Granger, Miss Weasley, I’m afraid we have no leads. Any searches for Harry will have to be delayed; we have no idea where to start. And with the government’s recent announcement regarding Sentinel Services, I think it is safest that all mutants avoid London for now.”

He sees the flinch in Hermione’s eyes. Ginny’s still fire and fury, “We’ll stay! We’ll look! We’re not afraid of Sentinel, whatever that is--”

“It’s anti-mutant,” Hermione whispers, “It’s a branch of the DMA that… that…” her eyes are wide, hands shaking, righteous anger gone now. The Weasley boy reaches out to steady her.

“I can’t in good conscience remain with a branch in London,” Dumbledore concludes, “If Harry is in London, then no doubt he’ll leave too with the announcement. “

“But--” Ginny’s still protesting.

Ron can probably already see his resolve, stands decisively, “Thank you, Professor,” he says, grabbing Hermione’s hand, “Come on.”

She looks torn but goes, worrying at her bottom lip with too large front teeth. Albus watches them troop out and he knows they’ll keep trying. Possibly and most likely without permission. He only hopes they don’t go to Sirius or Remus because the two men  _ will _ go behind his back to help.

The thing is; everyone  _ wants _ to help. To find their lost saviour, their lost  _ friend _ . They won’t give up, he won’t give up either. Harry had been their heart and spirit during the war; it is only natural that they seek out their leader now. But so too did Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange seek out Lord Voldemort. He doesn’t know if they found him before something… or  _ someone _ sent them both to early graves.

“You should really all stop worrying, you know.”

He glances up sharply at his still open door, “Oh?” he asks, softly, “Worry about what?”

“Why, Harry, of course.” He eyes up the girl standing in the doorway. She reminds him of Ariana in that moment, wide blue eyes and forlorn expression, “You won’t find him,” she says, with a certainty that murders all arguments before they’re born, “Not until it’s time.”

Albus has not determined if Luna Lovegood is a seer with flashes of futures in her head, if she sees decisional consequences like the youngest Weasley boy or if she sees the truth, whatever that might be. But there is something unshakable about her. She looks as if a thin wind might blow her over but her words are the roots of a hundred year old oak tree buried deep. “Is he safe?” he dares ask, “Is he well?”

“He’s alive,” she says, “Which is more than you managed.” The words cut. They should, and he lets them. He deserved that, even if they’re said so calmly they’re not even accusing.

“Harry is my greatest triumph,” he says, “And my greatest failure.”

“Oh, no,” Luna blinks, gaze distant, “I think that position is reserved for Tom Riddle. He’s okay too, in case you were interested. He’s better.”

“Better?”

“He’s with his soulmate,” she says, and whatever reassurance her words have given him, those shatter them. She still speaks serenely, like a calm ocean tide under the moon she is named for, but all Dumbledore can see is the cliffs the ship is heading for.

“Miss Lovegood… can you tell me where they are? I need to find them. They’re in danger, Harry is in danger…”

She blinks, and just like that the spell is broken, the reflected moonlight broken up by ripples, “Harry? He’ll be fine, you should have more faith in him. He’s stronger than you think.” She smiles, a quick bright flash of yellow sunflowers as she plays with her cork strung necklace and spins away, skipping off like she’s actually a teenager.

She is, in some ways, they never had the chance before to grow to adulthood.

They will in this world, Albus swears it. He will not allow harm to befall any of the students, the mutants he has found and made a home for. He remembers, and even though he remembered years too late to save Ariana and her violent, unpredictable powers in this world or the last, he will save the children he can remember.

Harry Potter is apparently not on that list, but then again the boy did always have a tendency to save himself.

*

Harry’s powers roll off his tongue and like a puppeteer Barty’s contact nods along. It’s  _ easy _ . The boy is  _ magnificent _ , and Tom can’t stop thinking about the way he had told Bella to throw herself to her death, had watched her walk away and brush his hands of the whole matter like he is an innocent in all this, like the golden boy of Gryffindor isn’t tarnishing his own soul with his words.

And even when the inevitable moral crisis does hit… there is still something so vibrant about Harry’s emotions that there’s something vicarious about the way Tom feels everything trickling through the younger boy. He looks so small and  _ young _ , fourteen,  _ Salazar _ , had this been how old the boy had been during that Tournament? During the graveyard? He eyes up the young boy tripping his way after him, none of that reckless anger or furious grace he possesses during moments of crisis.

There is still a stubborn set to his jaw, like a dog that won’t sit at heel, yet it’s endearing in an irritating kind of way. Harry is more competent than half of his Knights -  _ Death Eaters -  _  put together. Why had he spent so long trying to kill this young boy when Harry on his side is  _ so much more satisfying _ ?

Harry…

He’s still half expecting the boy to run. To abscond in the night, especially after they pick up passports and birth certificates and various other identification that will allow them to fake their way through until they’re legal adults. He’d almost expected a knife in the back but instead the boy stays. He looks at Tom with those brilliant green eyes that see far too deep, judge far too much, and his emotions read fear and foreboding like he’s still expecting Tom to turn around and start murdering and torturing.

The boy thinks he can  _ save _ Tom.

How adorable.

The boy with murder on his tongue and a body count practically equal to Tom’s own in this world thinks he can find some spark of  _ good _ within Tom. He doesn’t have the  _ heart _ to tell him it doesn’t exist. Barely has the  _ soul _ . Tom's an amalgamation of broken soul shards stuck together, but he’s  _ human _ in a way that Voldemort never was. Seeing his old followers had shown him how much things had changed; he was  _ better _ .

Sharp-tongued, clever-mind and ruthless ambition; Tom will let nothing stand in his way. Not even Harry Potter, the once-horcrux. He can still feel the echo of the connection, isn’t sure if he’s imagining it or if Harry, with his hurricane of emotions has somehow managed to become his emotional tether in this life as well.

He’s not  _ dependent _ , he tells himself. It’s simple; Harry is  _ his _ . The other Death Eaters with their outdated ideas and thoughts for mutant power are a risk. A gamble he is not yet willing to take. Tom’s self-preservation had always been strong - he’d split his soul to stay alive, after all - as much as his once-followers might want mutant superiority, Tom looks like a teenager. Nobody will take him seriously, and right now he doesn’t want to join a battle he will no doubt lose.

No, let he and Harry sit this out for a few years. Let the boy hone his silver tongue and Tom improve his own control.

The boy will stay. He thinks he can  _ save Tom _ .

He won’t run off to look for his friends. He  _ can’t _ run off. He is all parts of Tom’s soul made human, after all.

*

“Five people,” Tom challenges, “I bet you can’t coerce five people at the same time.”

“Oh come on! You can’t even force  _ emotions  _ on five people and you want me to--” he breaks off, because Harry is nothing if not competitive.

It’s been two months. Two odd, weird months and yet Harry is still breathing. Tom has yet to murder him in his sleep yet, which he thinks is a good sign. Two months and they’re no longer the desperate teenagers practically living on the streets. They’re still teenagers and the far off memories like a scattered dream don’t make then older.

It’s almost domestic. They’ve got a flat rented above an antique shop that reminds Harry of Borgin and Burkes except the darkest thing in there is a wardrobe with one hinge broken. He suspects they ended up there for that reason - Tom’s oddly nostalgic for an ex-dark lord with partial amnesia.

They hang out a lot in the pub Barty frequents - it alternates between being a warm family friendly place that does a mean pie on Sundays to a dark, dim place where secretive meetings occur in every dark corner. Harry’s stopped coercing the barman by now - the barman is a mundane himself, but he’s mutant friendly. The whole bar is usually frequented by more mutants than mundanes anyway.

"You need more control over your mutation,” Tom shrugs easily, the casual attitude so  _ odd _ on him, “We can't have you captured again so easily."

"Maybe I should just practice on you.”

Tom snorts, "No way. Besides, it's easier for you when you're angry. I doubt you'd agree to me boosting your anger and you've got enough anger at me already, no, we're going to find a nice innocent victim whose memory you'll wipe at the end."

"I don't like this," Harry says, "I don't like this at all."

"Come on, hero. Don't worry - there's no Ministry to arrest you for use of Unforgivables here."

“Five,” Harry mutters, stubbornly, “I’ll give you  _ five-- _ ”

“Don’t start a fight again,” Tom warns, tauntingly.

“That was  _ one time _ .”

Tom watches Harry stalk away across the pub. There’s an almost prideful look in his eyes - he’d have been a good teacher, Harry thinks, stopping in front of a group of five mundanes.

A minute later he’s back with five drinks on a tray that he’s coerced off the hapless patrons. He deposits the tray successfully in front of Tom, “Done,” he says, “Your turn.”

He wonders what it would have been like to go to Hogwarts with Tom Riddle. If he'd always had this streak of easy arrogance or if that's the influence of the older, more soul torn pieces of him. He pushes the thoughts from his head. This is Voldemort, he reminds himself, this is the murderer of his parents, this is…

This boy sitting next to him; lanky with dark brown eyes and human features is  _ not _ the same. Harry can't keep making denials.

Voldemort would have killed Harry by now. Voldemort would not have come back for him. Voldemort would  _ not  _ have a tendency of leaving tea bags in the sink with a collection of used teaspoons until the number reaches ridiculous proportion. Harry’s getting annoyed at never finding a clean teaspoon.

“Six people,” Harry challenges, “Manipulate six people. I want six patrons confused but so happy they're crying--”

“Could you practice at somewhere other than me pub?” the barman grumbles good naturedly, “Tho’ if you must there’s a bunch o’ mundanes being rowdy over by the telly, see what you can do.”

“Mornin’,” Crouch makes an appearance as he is want to do. He's like a limpet, irritating in his persistence.

“It's afternoon,” Tom corrects, eyeing up his new prey.

It's  _ odd _ , seeing Barty dressed so comfortably in muggle clothing. Then again Harry hasn’t seen him dressed in anything other than Moody’s skin. The shapeshifter looks like himself today, but last week he’d been prancing around as a woman. Yesterday he had been fifty years older.

“I’ve got a job for you,” he says, “If you’re interested.”

Harry watches him slide over a piece of paper with details along the bar towards Tom who doesn’t pick it up, just eyes it curiously.

“Couple’a mutants I know need some documents. Thought you could do your thing, secure them some. Clear a few criminal records while you’re at it… don’t look all pouty, Potter, half their crimes exist just because they’re mutants, not because of anything they did.” Harry’s still frowning and Barty gives a put-upon sigh, “ _ Okay _ , so a few might actually have a few B&Es and there’s one guy with a penchant for arson--”

“How much?”

“What?”

“Come on, we’re not doing this for free, Crouch,” Tom grins, “It’s a job, right, what’s the take?”

“Hey,” Harry protests, “Who volunteered me for this?”

“We need to pay rent, Harry, sweetheart, unless you want to keep coercing our landlord. I don’t mind, but the guilt every time you do so gives me migraines.”

He feels his teeth grinding together because he can’t argue. He knows the necessity of using his powers only when he has to, knows it eventually flags up and gets him caught. It was what had happened before, no, they need income. But still… forgeries?

Tom slides over the details, “Your decision, Potter,” he almost sounds like Voldemort, tone bland and cool as he straightens, “Barty; I expect cash, half upfront. Right now I have six people to bring to hysterical tears--” he looks way too gleeful at the challenge, reminds Harry a bit of Hermione sinking her teeth into a particularly thick book. He stalks off; a confident, almost arrogant figure.

Barty whistles, impressed. Harry edges away from him because there are times he forgets who this man really is, forgets that in another life he was a Death Eater, a murderer, he’d been just as complicit in torturing Neville’s parents as Bellatrix and yet--

Crouch doesn’t remember. He’s a blank slate.

Is a murderer still guilty if they don’t remember the crime that never happened in this universe?

“He’s impressive,” Crouch says, admiringly, “I can see why the Lestranges were so obsessed; he’s gonna be  _ terrifying _ when he’s older.” His look makes Harry shift uncomfortably, and Crouch’s attention snaps back to him, “Here ya’ go,” he says, pulling out an envelope from an inner coat pocket; Harry catches a glimpse of crisp £20 notes within, “The half Riddle wants now. The rest when you get the IDs.”

“I didn’t say I’d do it!” Harry protests, trying to shove the envelope away. Barty ignores his attempts, and he’s about to throw the envelope at the man’s head when the pub drops into a hushed silence. Harry pauses at the sudden absence of noise. He twists around to see the door open, two suited figures standing in the doorway. They have earpiece on and he feels a chill of recognition. He remembers being eight and doing anything to survive, remembers hearing the stories, running from suited shadows in alleyways. Remembers the time they finally caught up to him.

More movement at the door and there are more suited figured outside. Harry is moving even before the barman hisses, “DMA!  _ Scram _ .”

The pub goes from quiet and peaceful to a riot in a second flat. Chairs scrape and it’s painfully obvious who the mutants are, who panics and tries to look for a way out and who startled in genuine bewilderment.

“Nobody move!” a man shouts, “Mutant ID check, don’t try to resist, this is a routine check--”

Harry ducks into the crowd, pausing only to turn to where Barty looks unbothered. The man’s head is tilted back like he’s considering the need to shift forms but disregards the option, “Do I need ID too, daddy dear?” he asks, and with a horrible start Harry recognises the man in the doorway.

Framed against the light there’s that half a second heartbeat moment to recognise him, and confusion wars in him because surely Bartemius Crouch Senior is a mutant too, surely he wouldn’t try and  _ arrest _ his son.

But then again Barty isn’t meant to be out of prison. And Harry remembers the man Bartemius Crouch had been and doesn’t doubt for a second what this version of him will do.

Barty looks like he doesn’t care about his inevitable arrest, although his skin ripples as if in preparation for a shift. “Bart,” his father looks resigned, signals to his men to circle the room and Harry forces his head down, trying to seek out Tom. He’s pretty sure he and Tom are still on their alert database for retrieval and processing. He scans the room to see where Tom has gone, spots dark hair and moves. Shoves the envelope into a pocket and wonders when his first instinct had been to help Riddle instead of run. Hermione and Ron would be despairing at his saving-people thing right about now.

“Bart,” Crouch Senior sounds disappointed. He must be a mutant too, Harry thinks, wonders how many of the Ministry chase government positions here or are forced to reclusivity by their powers. Dumbledore had apparently hid his own powers as he rose through society. Harry is curious to know how many other mutants hide their abilities. He would have, he likes to think, had he not had such disastrous consequences to power manifestation. “I didn’t think you were meant to be out of prison,” Crouch Senior is frowning now.

“Good behaviour,” Barty smirks, “Nice to see you too. How’s Mum...oh...wait…”

Crouch eyes up his flesh and blood dispassionately, “They passed Claus 5.4,” he declares, “Sentinel Services has the right to arrest any mutant deemed a threat to society--”

“Did you get a  _ promotion _ \--”

“Any mutant,” Crouch repeats.  _ Shit _ , Harry thinks, feeling out of his depth, feeling like he’s drowning at the sudden  _ hunted _ feeling that springs in his chest. “Starting in London all mutants require IDs and evaluations as to their threat level--”

Barty stutters, “We’re not-- _ but _ \--”

“Any mutant,” Crouch says it like a mantra.

“Father--” there’s that moment of pause, that hope that his father won’t turn him in and Harry can see the moment it sours, see the realisation and Crouch Jr is halfway through a shift and throwing himself over the counter before one can blink. Alarmed shouts, Harry ducks around someone with seeker-agility, almost slamming straight into Tom as a gunshot rings out.

“Blocked the fire exit,” Tom says, knowing it’s Harry with unnerving speed, “Kitchen--”

Someone shoves into them, and Harry stumbles. A suited figure grabs hold of someone, yanking them forwards and scanning in an ID card--

For a moment he’s torn between sliding in front of the DMA and telling them to leave, to forget, to wrap cyanide around their minds until they’re gone and he’s safe. He hesitates in the middle, torn between what to do in the moment, between fear and adrenaline and the desire to  _ do something _ \--

“Come on!” Tom hisses, a teenage boy and Harry feels all of fifteen, too young, too many memories with too much disconnect--

Sense and rationality wins out, Harry twists towards Tom, “Fire exit,” he says.

“Are you crazy, I said it was  _ blocked _ \--” Tom cuts off with a choking hiss, clutching his head.

“Tom--  _ Riddle _ \--”

“Identification,” someone barks.

“I-I don’t--”

“Riddle?”

“I’m sorry!” the girl wails.

“Going to arrest me, father?” Crouch leers and Tom--

Tom freezes, gaze far away and not with Harry in that moment. A dark suit appears in Harry’s periphery and he flinches away.

“Your mother gave  _ everything _ for you,” Crouch is saying. The last thing Harry wants is to be involved in the Crouch family drama, “And this is how you repay her? Petty thievery, joining with gangsters, vandalisation of government buildings, violence in at least three offenses…”

“You two-- you boys, are your parents around--”

Tom is not reacting, eyes hazy, hands curling into claws that sink into Harry’s jacket, entangling in the fabric and head shaking like a wet dog.

“Is he okay--”

“No, we need to find our parents,” Harry blurts out, grabbing Tom’s wrist forcefully and  _ dragging _ the other boy towards the fire exit, away from the mundane. There’s a pause, then a splutter.

“Hang on, stop, STOP!”

Tom’s not speaking, barely reacting, and flinches at something Harry can’t see. A whimper passes his lips as Harry almost walks into the DMA guard on the door.

“Phillips, stop them--”

“ _ Get out of my fucking way _ ,” Harry snarls, and he packs enough of a punch for five people into the words. The poor mundane never stood a chance, throws himself out of the way ignoring his colleague's alarmed cry.

Harry and Tom are through the door and falling out into the street. He catches sight of dark black vans, of more DMA milling around. His heart is racing in his chest because he can’t go back, he  _ won’t _ go back--

Tom’s still oddly stiff and tense, still unresponsive, still mentally somewhere else. His breathing is fast-paced, pupils blown and out of focus. Harry slots his hand around the older teenager’s wrist and drags Tom forwards, not stopping until they’re away from the pub, away from the DMA, away from it all.

He makes it back to their crappy flat in one piece, shoving Tom through the door and locking it behind him. Riddle is shaking; fine tremors wrack his body and Harry deposits him on the sofa where he sits, still practically catatonic to the world.

It’s only then that Harry realises his own breathing is shaky, his hand unsteady and his legs are unstable. Emotion stings his eyes, and he tries once more to rouse Tom. He shoves him, violently, “Snap out of it,” he hisses; it’s almost parseltongue, “Tom! Fucking wake up, just--”

Nothing.

The adrenaline seeps out, leaving him to collapse in a messy heap on the floor.

Harry hadn’t realised how alone he was until Tom suddenly wasn’t there, hadn’t realised how much he actually relied on the older boy. And Harry had been on his own for  _ so long _ , to finally have someone else--

In his pocket the envelope crinkles, neat crisp £20 bills, an address and a list of names. Some are probably criminals, mundane and mutant, Harry acknowledges, but there are probably those that aren’t. Those he could help.

They live in a society bordering a militant state. Mutants are criminals in most people’s eyes. Being a mutant made you dangerous.

His morals and memories war within his brain, but in his chest is the 8-year old boy who remembers curling up on cold streets, the Dursley’s hate ringing in his ears.

Runaways didn’t last long on the streets. There were times the only reason Harry survived were his powers and memories, and all they’ve helped him do is throw everything into perspective. This new world is cruel; Harry knows this, has found out it’s harshness first hand before all the memories in his head made sense, before he realised that yes, he might not know anyone else other than his mortal-enemy turned teenage boy but that didn’t matter.

He had the power to do  _ anything _ at the tip of his tongue. For quite possibly the first time in his life he had the ability to  _ control _ what happened to him.

Fine then, Harry thinks, pocketing the address, he’d prove them right.

He’d prove them  _ all _ right.

‘Mutant is might’ had a better ring than ‘magic is might’  _ ever _ did.

*

Tom wakes with a stiff neck and the calm, reassuring flutterings of emotions, like a falling storm of flower petals drifting past him.

His head hurts; not unusual, he lives in the middle of London it’s inevitable that the dry emotions tainting the air bleed over, but the sheer  _ rush _ and  _ panic _ in the air--

Tom feels like he’s been on a bender of the DMA’s drug cocktails. Like he’s had too much alcohol in his system; that awful feeling when you’ve mixed too many ethanol containing drinks for a horrible result. The remnant of fear, horror, anger and panic all rot on his tongue and he swallows.

His throat is dry.

He blinks his eyes open; it takes him a moment to recognise the ceiling of their small living room, the light bulb dusty in the shade. He shifts, realising why he’s so uncomfortable - he suspects he’d fallen asleep sitting up, mind still caught up in the emotions. He is about to stand when he spots the human-shaped lump.

Harry’s asleep on the floor next to him.

His dark hair is messy, glasses sliding off his nose. He’s leaning back on the sofa, chin tucked against his chest and knees curled up. His chest rises and falls peacefully. He looks… he looks…

Tom stares at the boy for a moment, enjoying the stream of Harry’s emotions trickling through him. Potter’s dreaming about something, bittersweet, raw but distant and long-forgotten. It’s relaxing; the strange dissonance that Potter’s emotions have are the same tinge his own take, like the boy is part of himself torn away from the whole--

Like a part of himself had once lived within the boy, breathed and functioned and curled up like a wounded animal next to Harry’s psyche, like there had been a connection there and even now he can still feel the  _ echos _ .

He pushes the thoughts from his head. Stupid. Foolish. He stands, not caring that Harry rowses at his movements. Green eyes widen, fixate on him, “You’re awake?”

Tom ignores him, fiddles with the remote to the dodgy television their flat came with, trying to find the news channel.

“What the  _ hell _ happened back there?” Potter scrambles to his feet, green eyes blazing like St Elmo’s fire, “You were  _ useless _ , you just  _ shut down _ on me, have you any idea--?”

“Aw,” he croons, “Were you  _ worried _ about me?”

There is definitely a note of disconcerted worry, but it’s buried under frustration and the fierce righteous disgust that is almost the norm for Harry, “No,” Harry sneers, “You’re lucky I was able to get us out in time. You’re  _ welcome _ . What was  _ wrong  _ with you?”

“Nothing,” he says, pausing on the news channel. He spots DMA agents, a newscaster standing in front of a house with a door broken off its hinges. He won’t meet Harry’s gaze, can feel Harry’s annoyance boil and spill over.

“Don’t  _ lie _ ,” Harry mocks. It’s hard to tell if he means to put his power into his words, but he does and Tom  _ feels _ his mind go hazy and it’s so easy to just answer him.

“I get emotional overload.” Tom’s jaw clicks shut on the words but too late. Harry ducks back, away from the violence that festers like an old open sore in Tom’s tense body. “Don’t  _ do _ that,” he snarls, dropping the remote and rounding on Harry.

“I can’t help it! I get stressed! What do you mean you get ‘emotional overload’?”

He pauses to make sure there is no compulsion in the question, “People feel too damn much,” he snaps, “I get trapped in the emotions, it’s overwhelming and I dissociate. I’m used to it, usually I block it, but you had me trying to manipulate six people emotionally when the DMA showed up and it threw my gravity off-balance.”

Frustration wars with amusement, “So you’re saying it’s my fault,” it twists to fondness and Tom freezes in his fury to stare at where Harry is eyeing him up consideringly, “Does it always happen? Is that why you keep complaining I’m giving you a headache?”

What’s he meant to say? That Harry’s emotions are comforting? That he doesn’t mind the feelings when they come from the boy?

That he’s unused to being able to feel things so  _ viscerally _ and Harry’s like a new colour he hadn’t known existed and he  _ hates _ that.

“It’s only happened twice before,” he shrugs, “Once at the orphanage, once at the facility. It won’t happen again. I will not let emotions cripple me. Lord knows how you cope… your  _ emotions _ … You feel... so  _ strongly _ . I'd never have thought a person can feel so much - how does it not  _ cripple  _ you?”

Harry stares at him, as if the answer is obvious, as if he can’t quite believe Tom hasn’t seen it yet, “It's called strength of character,” he retorts, clearly missing something in his explanation.

Tom laughs in both delight at Harry’s fire and the naivety of his words, “You’re so innocent, it’s  _ precious.” _

“Feeling emotions is not a weakness,” he feels Potter’s frustration, watches the boy’s jaw tense, “How ironic,” Potter mocks, “You, feeling too much.” There is far too much sick glee there and Tom turns away, scooping up the television remote. The volume is muted, and for a moment he stares in numb silence at the headlines.

There’s nothing good there, and this is, Tom reflects, how it would have been had magic been revealed to the world. Too many rules, too much hate, too much discrimination - this is the pureblood and mudblood war taken to extremes except this time the once-magicals are all on the same side, blood be damned.

On the news the headlines flash. It’s still muted, but both Tom and Harry’s eyes drift to the declaration pasted there, the smug smiles of the bureaucrats and the slick letters of ‘Sentinel Services’.

“I’ve got the details of Barty’s job,” Harry speaks into the silence, tearing his gaze away from the TV to Tom’s, “I’m up for it, if it helps other mutants.”

“Criminals too--”

_ “Fine _ ,” Harry says, “I just want to… I want to help. We need the money anyway--”

How quaint, Tom thinks, of course Harry wants to  _ save people _ . He wants to argue because Tom doesn’t want to waste his time  _ helping _ mutants. He wants to  _ rule _ . Tom is not  _ nice _ , Tom is kindness like barbed wire wrapped cruel around your flesh. He opens his mouth to mock Harry, to call him out but he pauses because the emotions don’t line up, they’re too sharp, too vibrant, too  _ angry _ and while there is righteousness there…

So is violence.

“Dumbledore’s precious little saviour,” he coos, and enjoys the way Harry’s emotions flinch away from the words, the way dislike tempers in those pretty green eyes. Harry is no more Dumbledore’s friend at the moment than Tom is his enemy. Oh, there is respect there, no doubt about it, but there is betrayal that has been left to fester and grow and it’s rotting at the core.

“I’m not,” Harry snaps, “I didn’t ask to be the hero, Riddle, I didn’t ask for you to keep trying to kill me, I didn’t  _ ask to be stuck here with you _ \--”

“So  _ angry _ , Harry,” Tom clicks his tongue, “So much violence, who would have thought you were so suited to it? Tell me, is it the piece of me that you held or were you always inclined towards a temper? Did Dumbledore know? Don’t  _ deny it _ , I can  _ feel _ it pouring off you, at least be honest with yourself, Potter. You want to make them  _ suffer _ , the way  _ I _ suffered, the way  _ you suffered _ \--”

“We should get out of London,” Harry tries not to rise to the bait, “This Sentinel Services is starting here, we should get out, we should--”

“But you don’t want to, do you?” Tom says,  _ mocks _ , taunts almost gently.

And it’s true. He meets brown eyes and shakes his head.

“I want justice,” Harry says, tone firm, morals like iron clad pillars, but trying to bend them is the most fun Tom’s had in ages, “I want equality, and I want them safe. Besides… Barty was a useful contact, the least we could do is look into breaking him out of wherever they’re holding him-- and I want to get the others out. There must be more facilities like the one that we were in. Other children, other mutants, hell, maybe even people we know - I want to… to help… to--”

“I agree.”

_ “What _ .” Harry is so surprised at his ready agreement he can’t even put the infliction into the question, it’s flat.

Tom turns to him with a battery acid smile, “I agree,” he says, “What they do to mutants is foul. It needs to change but shoving you in front of some MPs and coercing them isn’t going to do anything in the long run. No, we need to go straight to the source of the problem. The DMA branches.”

“You’re being serious?” he stares, weighing up Tom’s words. He doesn’t have empathy to taste the sincerity of his words but Tom makes his seriousness evident in his body language, in the way the air tastes like sea salt and Tom shifts like the tide; movements full of purpose as he stalks up to his once-horcrux.

The boy barely appears to realise how close he is; he can feel the warmth and beat-beat-beat of Harry’s heart as brown eyes meet green. “Of course. Would I make this up? No, believe me, I want to see them burn as much as you do.”

Harry doesn’t even  _ try _ to deny it. His emotions lift in determination, giddy and resolute.

“But--” Tom enjoys the way that hope dwindles, holds it for a moment and then puts the boy out of his misery, “Oh, relax, don’t get uptight… I’ve a valid point. We’re only two people, Harry, even with our mutations… we need resources, a plan, people on our side and the easiest way to get that? Money.”

Harry raises one eyebrow, “And your proposal?” he asks, as if he already dreads the answer.

Tom’s grin is blinding, like someone trying to swallow the sun, “It’s okay,” he croons, “It’s just a small thing, don’t worry so much, sweetheart, it’s giving me a headache--”

“Tom.”

Sunlight flickers. “I want to rob a bank.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Harry wonders whether to point out that he has a better track record in bank robbing than Tom does but decides not to draw attention to any more of his criminal exploits; the other boy would probably be impressed.]


	6. preparing the crucifix

_(Two years later)_

Severus Snape approaches the rundown tattoo parlor with apprehension. It’s a dingy place, and despite the artwork scattered in the window it doesn’t brighten. Maybe it’s the area of London it chooses to reside in, or maybe it’s the presence of criminals that cling to it’s walls like oily fumes. He pauses half a second, his mind and memories telling him to wait for the illusion to drop, for the magic to kick in.

Nothing happens. Magic is dead and yet waking up one day convinced his throat has been torn open by a giant snake does not change that.

The very thought still sends shivers down his spine, like melting ice. He wishes he could rid himself of the hazy half-memories that thrust themselves upon him unwillingly, unwantedly. They have made a home for themselves, settled themselves in the dark corners of his mind until they taint the world around him into this new world.

This magic-less world.

In his dreams he still dies with green eyes staring at him and a snake’s venom in his bloodstream. He likes to think he died for something, but not even Granger and Weasley - whose memory is far the most extensive out of everyone - remember how everything ended.

He imagines this world is like what the old one would have been like had muggles found out about magic. Cold and cruel and a reminder of all the reasons Voldemort and Grindelwald and ilk like them had become so popular in the first place.

He pushes open the door to the tattoo parlour. It creaks, not ominously, more out of disuse and neglect. He feels dirty just touching it.

Inside the lights are dim and dust coats the oddest of surfaces. A shadow shifts and a hunched-over man appears, eyes widening until Severus can see the whites of them in the gloom.

“Mundungus Fletcher,” he drawls, enjoying the way the man startles. Severus basks in the feeling for a moment; at least the sepia-toned images in his head are good for something. The man looks like he wants to flee and Severus clears his throat, “I don’t want to spend longer here than necessary so please don’t try to--”

The man makes a dart for the door.

“Run,” he finishes, and watches almost lazily as the man makes it three steps before freezing. His pupils dilate, and he reaches out blindly in front of him.

Coat billowing out behind him in mimicry of the way a cloak used to do the same along a dungeon floor, he steps neatly in front of the man and takes a hold of his neck in a bruising grip. “Have a little problem _seeing_ , are we?” he growls, steering Mundungus straight into a chair. The man topples, still groping blindly.

“What did ye’ do?” the man babbles, sightless eyes looking around, “Look, whatever you think I stole, I didn’t do it--”

“Save your protests,” he’s not interested in them, “I know you’re a bottom feeding criminal.”

“Now that hurts,” Fletcher, even with Snape’s mutant power ensnaring his senses still having the audacity to clutch his chest in mock pain, “I mean ya’ right, but still--”

“It so happens,” Severus hums, considering the man, “That I need to find another criminal, and I heard you know everything about everybody. You talk and don’t try and stab me with that pencil you’ve transmutated into a switchblade and maybe I’ll give you your eyesight back.”

The blade drops to the ground, bouncing back into a pencil as it hits the tiles. The thief raises his hands in the air, harmlessly, “Sure, sure, ask away--”

“I want to know about the twins.”

The man’s blase smile drops so fast it’s like it was never there. His laugh is strained, Severus notes the hesitancy, “No,” he says, “No, I don’t know anythin’ abou’ them.”

So Severus takes the man’s hearing with a pointed thought, listens to the man’s audible gasp, his babbling and sudden silence when he realises he can’t hear anything.

Mundungus clutches at the air around him, claws at his throat and feels the vibration of his own throat, “You asshole,” he slurs, “You really want to know?”

Severus gives the man back his sight and his hearing, enjoying the flinch as the man’s senses rush back in all at once. Fletcher cringes from the light, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows nervously, “If I hadn’t wanted to hear,” Snape drawls, in the same tone he had once used to talk to dimwitted Gryffindors, “I wouldn’t have _asked_.”

“It’s just…” Mundungus shudders, “Well, they-- they give me the heebie jeebies, alright? They’re _weird_ , even for mutants. Something about them feels… _off…_ and that’s wivout the stories ya’ hear about pissing them off and ending up naked the other side of London with no idea what happened.”

“They’ve single-handedly broken into half of London’s big-name companies and banks, and that’s without counting the DMA facilities they’re slowly working their way through,” Severus couldn’t sound more unimpressed if he wanted to, “They’re drawing attention to themselves, to us, and my boss wants to recruit them before they end up dead or captured, especially after that debacle with Grindelwald on the continent.”

Mundungus sneers, “You think I would know where they are? The pair keep to themselves, work alone, have a few contacts--”

WIth a sigh Severus takes the man’s sight again.

“Okay, okay, stoppit, stoppit, I’ll tell ya’ I’ll talk! They hang around the indoor market, down Charing.”

His lip quirks. The market is a new addition, it had sprung up within the last year or so and it had almost definitely originated from someone who remembered the location where Diagon Alley once used to reside, hidden in the back-alleys and cobbled streets that still existed amongst London’s busy modern roads. He wondered if this was another tally to Dumbledore’s foolish bet that the twins were ex-magicals.

He knew Dumbledore shouldn’t have abandoned the city so easily. The mutants here who had slipped through the old man’s fingers had their own pecking order, their own loyalties, their own _regime_ , practically.

WIth a wave of his fingers Mundungus blinks back his vision. “Is that it? Ya’ done?”

“Is that all you know?”

The man deliberates but as Severus raises a hand he blurts it out, “One’s a manipulator,” he says, “Gets in your head, makes you do what he wants. Ya’ don’ stand a chance.”

“We’ll see,” he says, as he stalks out of the shop. The words are nothing, only confirmation of rumours they’ve already heard.

Dumbledore had been looking for one Tom Riddle.

He might have found him.

*

In Harry’s defence he didn’t mean to start a career in criminality with Tom Riddle.

It just sort of… happened.

 _No_ , he had told Tom with his fever-glazed eyes and eager tongue, _No, we are not robbing any banks are you_ **_high_ **?

But like a cantankerous sore Tom is persistence personified, silver tongued and serpent blooded. Harry is not hapless prey, but when faced with Tom’s vicarious enthusiasm he feels helpless to resist. “Give me one reason it’s a bad idea. Just _one_. I’m waiting.” Tom looks like something unholy, beautiful and perfect like a marble statue but with something under his skin, behind his eyes just waiting to break through. A mad reflection of the monster that exists in the shattered shards of his soul and god help him if Harry can’t see a piece of himself in the blood, the body, the whole soul in front of him.

“Why won’t you just accept ‘no’ as an answer?”

“Because nobody ever says ‘no’ to me,” Tom says, plainly, and Harry half expects to look up into crimson red eyes but no. They’re human and brown and his skin is warm as he keeps Harry pinned in place, a restless sort of energy to him, “And I’m _bored_ . I’m sick of living off our powers, sick of these small-time gigs - why _limit_ ourselves, where’s that Slytherin ambition of yours--”

“I was a Gryffindor--”

“Were you.” Tom’s tone is flat and something in Harry’s head (soul) catches the light like a stained glass window reflecting all the wrong colours and it wasn’t a question. “If we use our powers right,” Tom adds, cautiously, “I promise nobody needs to get hurt.”

“You _promise_ , you mean _of course_ nobody is going to get hurt--”

“Says the boy with a kill count higher than mine in this world.”

Harry’s jaw snaps shut. His eyes are acidic.

“You just have a petty desire to rob the world of it’s belongings.”

“Yes, _fine_ , I want to steal shit,” Riddle doesn’t even _try_ to deny it, “But you do too, and don’t tell me you don’t. You said we have to do something... well, this is my proposal to do something. A starting point. It’s you and me against the world at the moment, Potter, and we need that to change--”

“There are _laws--_ ” he struggles weakly, half-heartedly, fingers sinking around Tom’s wrist but unable to pull the older boy off him.

“Forget _legality,_ we’re already wanted criminals,” Tom shrugs, “Why not give them an actual reason? We’re not here to play by the rules. I have no interest in preserving the status quo. I want to overthrow it. Let’s _shatter it_ ,” his voice is crooning, his empathy unintentionally rolls his emotions over Harry with a cold wild joy about him, “Just think of it; your power and mine combined, it will be _easy_. Come and make the world kneel.”

Tom Riddle is damning. His grin is devastating and Harry can’t help but fall.

Of course, Harry thinks, he had forgotten.

There are no gods here.

They are the gods.

*

_(Now)_

“You’re going to _forget_ that we were here. And you’ll _wipe the security camera_ s for us too, right? Just leave those files on the desk on your way out, drop your keycard--”

Tom was right. It is _easy_.

His power curls like a snake around his neck, just waiting to strike. The more he uses it, the easier it becomes. He’s become well-practiced at compelling, and though occasionally his stomach churns in guilt-ridden nausea, it usually settles. This had to happen eventually, and he can’t quite help the thrill of the control he holds at his fingertips as he watches the DMA guard obey his instructions. They’re like puppets dancing to his strings and he’s not an empath, but even he can feel Tom’s glee as he slips into the room the moment the man steps out.

Tom remains as impossible to read as ever. There are days when he’s still convinced Riddle wants to corrupt him, others when he thinks Tom wants him just for his powers. And then there are times like these when Tom has this mad gleam in his gaze like he just wants to drag Harry along for the rollercoaster.

“Guess who’s _finally_ found the blueprints of their facility,” Tom practically crows as he saunters into the room, “You good?”

“Sure,” Harry enjoys altering their own records to throw the DMA off track. It’s dangerous and in the two years since they fully embraced being on the run from the law they’ve only ever found the courage to venture into a DMA base three times. The sensible thing to do would have been to get out of the city, not stay and live on the run, not to _antagonise_ them--

Harry’s always had a twisted sense of his own self-preservation. Tom’s just trying to tear them down. It works surprisingly well.

“Done,” he tears the USB stick out of the computer, “Want to torch this place?”

They stumble out of the facility laughing, adrenaline pumping through their veins. The fire alarm rings in the air, a screaming howl to the winds. The flames are warm on Harry’s cheek, rain pouring from the sky and clinging to his cheek like tears. At his heart he’s still that child abandoned for his mutation and to lash out, to leave his mark upon this world unrestrained, unimpinged with no consequences--

He’ll never admit that he likes this, had enjoyed this lifestyle he’s forged for himself with Tom freaking Riddle. He’d like to blame the other boy, it’s easy to blame Tom. It’s Tom’s fault, everything is Tom’s fault in reality except it isn’t, not here, not now, no…

No, this is all Harry’s fault.

They’re three blocks away when Tom stiffens like a hound, head twisting unnerving to face something unseen in the darkness. Harry feels his heart skip a beat, ice sinks into his veins, “Tom?” he asks, “What is it? Wha--”

Warm fingers curl into his arm and a finger presses against his lip, “Hush,” he silences the younger boy, ignoring the way green eyes flash with indignation. Harry bats his hand away, cyanide curling around his tongue in preparation but Tom’s next words stills them cold in his throat. “Someone’s following us.”

*

Nobody can lie to Tom. Nobody can lie without that frisson of adrenaline or nerves and he picks up on it without even thinking about it.

Nobody can sneak up on him either, unless Tom’s distracted or in a bustling crowd with emotions pressing down on him from all sides. Right now, in the dark and rain behind one of London’s once-DMA bases, the bright curiosity and tenacity are like glaring beacons springing up on his radar.

Harry is his usual whirlwind tornado of emotions. Panic flares for a moment, settles into resolution and determination. Tom takes in the maelstrom like a starving man. Harry is like the worst kind of addiction. They warn you about alcohol and opioids, but _emotions_? It’s like seeing the world through technicolour; Tom’s so attuned to Harry’s emotions that he feeds almost vicariously off the boy’s emotions. He hadn’t comprehended how many spectrums of emotion existed before he spent extended periods of time in Harry’s company.

“Come on,” Harry grabs Tom’s hand like it’s natural, like their shared soul hadn’t once made the very action pain and horror-filled, like they’re just two teenage boys who have spent the past hour shoplifting and not robbing government secrets, “We’ll have to take the scenic route home.”

The rain is warm slickness against the back of his neck, uncomfortable and soot-stained against his skin. He slips like a shadow after Harry, aware of the person following them continue after them with a dogged determination and uncanny ability not to lose them. “They’re a mutant,” Tom says, tilting his head.

“Their emotions tell you that?” Harry sneers. He’s spent too long with Tom, his words are too sharp and cutting nowadays, but it wipes a moment later to bright green-eyed mischievousness, “Come on, I’ve got a plan!”

Harry’s plans are quick-thoughts and unconnected ideas that spin together in elaborate and nonsensical ways and somehow _work_.

“What?” he blinks, still amazed at Harry’s propensity for quick in-the-moment ideas as Harry nods his head towards an underground station. Harry meets his gaze, grin infectious and for a moment he looks like the teenager he is as he starts for the station.

The only clue their stalkers have noticed is the alarm that flares as Tom starts after Harry. They hit the station; it’s barely a room with some ticket machines, a line of elevators and the stairs. “The stairs,” Harry says, not even look at the elevators.

“Are you _kidding_ ,” Tom asks, tone flat, “We’re at Covent Garden, _Potter_ , have you any idea how many stairs there are?”

“195,” Harry shrugs, “According to that notice, _come on_ \--”

He follows Harry down the stairs. He can still taste the sharp salt tang of those tracking them, he hears the shouts and the footsteps hit the stairs. They know they’ve been made, “Stop!” a voice shouts, tone deep and male, “Stop, we mean you no harm!”

Harry wavers, _freezes_ like a deer in the headlights, confusion blooming across his face. He wavers and Tom grabs hold of the younger boy to stop him overbalancing but Harry has already jumped down three steps of the spiralling fire exit and continuing further down.

Tom almost wishes they’d stuck to the street, but Harry’s right. This is the easiest way to throw someone off their trail in London. The cloying heat and smell as they descend reminds him stepping off the train at King’s Cross in May of 1942, the way the dust had clung to the air and the sounds of war had echoed around him. His head spins and it’s only Harry’s grounding presence that keeps him stable.

He hits the bottom, the sign along the wall cheerfully informing him of their descent 15 stories. He skids to a halt, and Harry almost runs into him at the sight of a woman standing in their way.

Tom skids to a halt because he had clocked onto one set of emotions. He hadn’t noticed the second.

“Nice chase, kids,” the woman says with a cheeky grin. “You must be the twins, right? Little birdie said you’d be raiding this place tonight, nice job. Heard the DMA wants you something _bad_ \--” the light above her flickers, and with it her hair shifts colour. Much in the way Barty’s form had shifted and twisted shape, her hair blooms a brilliant bubblegum pink and Tom’s close enough to hear the ragged gasp that tears it’s way free of Harry’s throat.

“Tonks?”

Her head tilts to the side, gaze sliding over to where Harry stands the moment the other pursuer appears. Dark-skin, bald head, smart suit, “We’re not going to hurt you,” deep, almost calming voice, “We just want to talk - you’re drawing too much attention..”

“Don’t you get it?” Harry asks, “That’s the fucking _point_.”

There’s a beat in which Tom senses the recognition flare at Harry’s voice, sees both adults startle and he’s preparing to reach out, to manipulate them into fear or distraction--

Harry gets there first, “ _Don’t move_ ,” he says, voice breaking slightly as he glances between the two adults.

“Shacklebolt,” Tom says, eyeing up the man, his eyes hazy under Harry’s sway, “ _Shit_ , Order members--”

He can see Harry’s shock, hesitation, the way his coercion stutters and Shacklebolt blinks in slow, tired recognition through the mental chains, waits for the moment Harry steps forwards in joy and relief at having found the Order Tom has tried so hard to keep him away from--

 _“Forget you saw us_.”

Tom’s gaze settles on Harry who is staring with a blank emotionless kind of grit at the man. His emotions are oddly flatlined too, like he’s pulling from Tom at the moment.

And like little dolls shoved into place those under Harry’s sway move to his tune. There’s a second of resistance, of recognition and purpose that fights Harry’s command and Tom crushes it cruelly. It would be horrifying in the ease at which those they meet fall under their sway had they not perfected it to a fine art _years_ ago.

The woman fights it, Tom sees her mouth Harry’s name and Tom doesn’t think twice about twisting her emotions into grief like a physical punch that has her reeling, lets Harry’s gasoline slick power slip slide over her thoughts.

“Go to _sleep_ ,” Harry finishes, _“Forget this past hour_.” He reels back, spins away too quickly and not even looking as the man drops like a lead weight to the ground. Shacklebolt hits his head; he’ll have a nasty bump. Tom doesn’t care, he has eyes only for where Harry is walking as far as possible away towards the underground platform.

“What the _hell_ ?” he snarls, it’s ripped from his throat. His hands sink into Harry’s damp jacket as he whirls on the younger boy. The rain has trailed damp fingerprints down the soft fabric, and now he claws into it, tugging Harry towards him, “What the _fuck_ was that, Potter?”

“I just saved our asses,” Harry snaps back, all Gryffindor fire and fury. “You bastard, can’t you be _grateful_ for a change. Oh, wait…” Tom feels the anger twist into spite, “I’m sorry, I forgot. Mummy dosed Daddy with a love potion so he’d marry her.”

An animalistic growl is torn from Tom’s throat and he lets go of Harry’s wrist to sink his fingers into Harry’s collar. Harry doesn’t flinch; he can still wrap cyanide around Tom’s mind to turn him away and Tom _knows_ this.  “Are you _running_ , Potter? I thought you _wanted_ to find your precious Order?”

Harry bristles, “Don’t be ridiculous,” he bluffs, confusion wars with nerves and happiness, “I do,” Harry says, clearly conflicted, and Tom wants to stare in open-mouthed disbelief but he doesn’t because he’s _Lord Voldemort_ , he doesn’t gape at a teenager in confusion, “Stop reading my emotions, you _dick_ ,” he hits Tom in the shoulder, “I do but…” he shakes his head, “Not here. Not after---”

Guilt, more nerves and _fear_ twisted into bitter anger. It makes absolutely no sense to Tom who struggles to understand human motives on a good day.

“Besides,” Harry shrugs off his own reasons, “Can’t have them finding you here, even if you do look like a posh Eton boy. Come on,” and he steers Tom towards the platform. Tom goes, oddly touched, oddly… reassured? Happy? There’s a fierceness to it, a sharp sting of pride and triumph, the kind he always got when he stole something successfully. The kind he gets now after a robbing.

Harry has said multiple times he does not want to seek out the Order, and somehow Tom has not believed him until now. Because Harry makes no attempts to contact the two friends he’s coerced into a drugged sleep behind them, instead he picks Tom over them. There’s something the boy’s hiding, a discontent, a guilt gnawing at his insides but there’s also--

Thrill, contentment, peace, a settled state of being that settles beneath Harry Potter’s skin giving the boy a purpose he did not know the other could have, still too used to the flashes of memory of the boy as an awkward teenager still trying to find his way in the world.

This Harry Potter knows his place. He knows he is a criminal, a mutant, _accepts it_ and together with Tom they are taking the first steps to fighting back.

“Why do you care?” Harry changes tack suddenly, sailing into the wind, “It’s not like you _want_ them to find me _,_ ” he says, the accusation lacking inflections but a bite to it nonetheless.

“Yes,” Tom admits, freely, and whether it’s some twisted sense of _possession_ or cruelty in keeping Harry to himself and separate from his pack he can’t tell. Tom eyes him warily, like he’s still waiting for Harry to spin around and sink his fangs in, “Maybe I want to keep you to myself. What good did they ever do, Harry? They sent you out to fight their war.”

“Against you.”

“I was an adult. I knew what I was getting myself in for, but you… you were a boy they were already preparing the crucifix for.”

Harry doesn’t quite manage to hide the flinch, because isn’t that the truth? It hits too close to home even after all this time. The raw _hurt_ is still fresh even as Tom digs the heel of his palm into the wound.

“Where’s that Gryffindor righteousness, Potter? Where’s that anger, that famous temper--?”

“You and I both know,” Harry says, slowly, anger glittering in those green eyes, “That had the Sorting Hat sorted me in this lifetime at eleven I wouldn’t have ended up in Gryffindor.” There’s still that odd undertone of guilt that Tom can’t shake. The boy is hiding, _avoiding_ something. He tries to push away but Tom catches his wrist.

“So that’s why you ran? Because you’re _scared_ \--”

Harry tears his wrist free, “Why don’t you tell me?” he snarls, “Use your cute little power, Riddle, and _tell me_ \--”

“I don’t _understand_ ,” he retorts, because isn’t that the problem. He can’t understand how Harry functions with that many _feelings_ , there is still too much guilt, too much hope that sours like old fruit rotting, “I don’t understand, _you_ , you feel too _damn_ much _all the damn time_ \--”

Harry coos, mockingly, “Baby Dark Lord doesn’t understand human emotion, how _pitiful_ \--” A hard shove sends Harry stumbling and he laughs in delight, vicious joy flaring, “Look at you, so inclined to mundane fist fights, so inclined to getting down in the dirt with the peasants. I thought we were beneath you--”

Tom’s fist connects solidly with the boy’s cheek, sending him to the ground, hard. Harry lies sprawled there for a moment, and the second of triumph at seeing the boy brought low twists unpleasantly in his gut. There’s no fight suddenly, the boy chokes for air, words clinging to his tongue and gravel studding his palm and _it’s no fun_ , he thinks. Where’s the brave hero now? Where’s the _competition_ \--

“You don’t know when t’bleedin’ quit, do you?” he drawls, messily, hair in disarray, all mirth and vicious amusement like rot that spoils perfectly good meat. “You’re free to leave, Potter. I of all people can’t stop you with your silver tongue. Your friends are right back there… go on. Go to them.”

“I can’t,” Harry chokes. He’s broken the boy, Tom thinks, but no, that damn guilt is still there, “I… you don’t _understand_ … I can’t… it’s _my fault_. I--”

Tom looks down at him, just as with a loud whine and displacement of hot fume ridden air blown towards them a train appears. Harry flinches, cringes away from the sight as it draws to a slow halt, doors sliding open. The bright light of the late night commuter service leers like a grin at them and he waits half a beat, not moving until with a loud engine roar and scream the train moves.

Harry’s shaking, all anger gone now. Tom cards careless fingers through the boy’s messy hair, lingering on where the once-horcrux had been before he grabs the boy’s shirt and tugs him up, “The world doesn’t revolve around you, Harry,” he tilts his head, fringe falling over his eyes.

Harry laughs, a knife sharp blade that’s sole purpose is for cutting, “Doesn’t it?” his head cocks to one side, “What if I told you I did this? All of this… this world, _you_ , you’re like my own personal _punishment.._.” His voice is a drawl but he sounds washed out. Rain strewn. Puddles on a dry day. It’s not nearly as intimidating as it’s meant to be.

Tom pauses, examining Harry with far too much scrutiny, “Am I?” he asks, no hope of beginning to understand what the boy is thinking. He holds out a hand, a mimicky of the facility and although he must know it is damning, Harry takes it. He’s pulled up to standing, a warm body there to stop him stumbling and Tom doesn’t let go. He reaches out, emotionally nudging the boy. He’s not manipulating him - Harry’s reinforced about half a dozen repeat compulsions not to - he just stablises him, offers out a hand to help balance him and the boy practically sinks into the feeling like he had once dived so easily into his thoughts. The boy thinks nothing of boundaries, it is like he has always been a part of Tom, a torn fragment coming home.

“You trust me?” Tom asks.

 _No_ , he sees in Harry’s eyes, and yet-- “Yes,” he says, warm fingers curling firebrands into Tom’s shoulder, because if there is one thing Tom Riddle prides himself on it is his ability to survive.

The older teenager is almost tender, almost kind, as if Harry is something precious. Maybe he is, to Tom. A once-horcrux. Maybe if Harry is right and he’s Harry’s punishment, then maybe Harry is Tom’s salvation.

Another rush of warm air, heated fumes and another train appears with a roar. Harry still flinches, but hides the movement as he pulls away. Tom misses for a moment the soft warm butterfly pulse beneath his flesh, “We should go. Before they wake and figure out they were coerced.” His skin feels flushed, pulse jittery and Harry’s emotions still maelstrom in his head, but it’s not disturbing, never disturbing.

“Harry?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” killing curse eyes blink open, an odd resolution settled in them, “Let’s get out of here.”

The doors to the train close and then they’re gone, the two Order members left crumpled on the stairs.

*

He throws the door to his family’s home open with a loud _crack_ that makes Remus leap half a mile and Ron sneeze as some dust wafts into the air. He waits half a second for the expected scream from his mother before he remembers that dead is dead in this world.

Sirius sighs, steps into the hallway and promptly faceplants the moulding carpet as his leg get tangled in the old umbrella stand that for some reason, still looks like a troll’s leg. Ron almost breaks a rib laughing as Remus and Hermione step carefully over him. “You are not,” Sirius clears his throat, “Not allowed to tell Molly I brought you lot here. She’ll have a heart attack if she hears you lot are in London instead of another made up Black property in Wales.”

“She won’t hear it from me,” Ron mimes zipping his lips shut.

“How fascinating,” Hermione has made it to the stairs where, instead of house elf heads, there are several deer, stags and boar, “The family still has a propensity for poor decorating skills.”

Sirius makes his way through to the kitchen. He’s not sure what he’s expecting - Kreacher does not exist here and he has not lived in this house for _years_ , hadn’t even _visited_ it following his mother’s death. He’d been trapped in it in one world, how ironic that he return to it now. “You two are going to have to take one of the upstairs bedrooms,” he says, “Dumbledore wants to use it for Order meetings again, naturally, but given how much of an anti-mutant zone London is I doubt it’s going to be the same it was when we were fighting against Voldemort.”

“You can sneak us out, right?” Hermione asks.

“I snuck you in,” Sirius says, “Don’t go do something stupid now--”

“Sirius, we’re adults, we’ve been adults for _years_ , just because we look like teenagers--”

“We’re doing this for Harry,” Ron points out, and isn’t that the reason behind everything. They’d been so close to him, right on his trail and then-- then _nothing_. Trail dead, cold and DMA making arrests all around London and Dumbledore had pulled out. They’d stayed too long as it was, they’d lost Bones and Burbage to the arrest spree. Sirius’ protests that they stay to look for Harry were met with deaf ears.

Besides - they assumed he was in London. There was a whole country, a whole history of places he could have been instead. Scotland, Forest of Dean, Newcastle--

Two years. Dumbledore doesn’t have to say he’s given up to make that obvious. They give it time, maybe Harry’s memories came back slower than theirs, maybe--

Two years and there has been _nothing_.

Harry is James and Lily’s son. In his last life he had failed in many things but the biggest was undoubtedly his ability to protect his godson.

He remembers the Veil, the brush of death like a feather tickling almost and the fall and--

And a forest and Harry’s face so so pale with a stone clutched in his fist and questions on his tongue and so scared and alone and untouchable, a world away--

He can’t make the same mistakes all over again. Isn’t that the point of mistakes? To allow you to do better the second time?

He has to find Harry.

Maybe he’s dead, Sirius thinks, but the hope of finding his godson alive and well is the only thing that keeps him going and he refuses to even consider that possibility. Instead he sneaks in two of Harry’s best friends to the biggest anti-mutant place right now, where one wrong move or scan and they’ll be arrested.

One last chance, he thinks.

“Apparently the criminals defer to a pair of thieves,” Remus pulls up a seat in the kitchen. Sirius jumps slightly - he hadn’t noticed the other man enter. The chair wobbles unsteadily but the wolf shapeshifter sits there anyway, not saying anything about the empty mug Sirius has reflexively clutched to his chest.

“Thieves?” Ron and Hermione have wandered in without Sirius noticing. Hermione looks disgusted, “Mutants?”

Sirius shrugs, busies himself with trying to find an actual tea bag in the cupboards somewhere. Remus sighs, hands clasped in front of him on the old wooden table, “I imagine so, otherwise he wouldn’t be so interested in them. They’re on the top of most of the DMA and Sentinel wanted lists and nobody even really knows who the pair are--”

There is a creak from the front hall and a muffled thump as someone walks into the umbrella stand. “Huh,” Sirius says, “Useful that, like an alarm.”

“You should probably get one,” Hermione suggests, “Who is it--” she lets out a squeak as the arrival steps into the doorway, form just as looming and ominous as it had been for all her years at Hogwarts.

“You should consider locking your door, Black,” Snape sneers, “You never know when somebody could just... _wander_ in.”

“Looks like somebody just did,” he mutters under his breath, venomously. He glares hard enough at Snape that the man stubs his toe and manages to put his hand down right on a splinter of wood when he flails for balance. It’s almost comedic.

“Sirius!” Remus snaps in exasperation, “No powers.”

“Sorry,” Sirius says, not sorry one bit as Snape scowls around the room, freezing momentarily at the sight of Ron and Hermione, “I gather,” he drawls, sniffing, “That Mr Weasley and Miss Granger are not meant to be in London?”

“Of course we’re meant to be here,” Ron splutters.

“Ah,” Snape hums, unpleasantly, like oil spilling into water, “You want to find precious Potter, is that right?” There’s a beat in which nobody answers, just tries not to look too guilty. Snape looks like he would roll his eyes were such an action not beneath him. As it is he just closes his eyes and exhales slowly through his nose, “Albus has found someone, but it’s not the Potter spawn.”

“The twins,” Remus spins in his chair. It’s not a question.

“Who even are these twins? You mean to say nobody has discovered their identity, not once?”

“Oh, but Dumbledore thinks he has,” Snape’s black eyes open, “He thinks one of them,” his voice is slow, measured and tone distastefully, “He thinks one of them is the Dark Lord, reborn. Tom Riddle.”

Ron flinches. Remus’ mug hits the table too hard and Hermione can’t stop the gasp that escapes her. “B-but why--”

“He’s a mutant. A manipulator,” Snape looks uncomfortable, “Dumbledore wants to play the phrase ‘keep your enemies close’. We’ve also had a lead on him, the district he likes to hang in. Dumbledore sent Tonks and Kingsley to try and track him down, see if they can establish a meeting time and place--”

The words are barely out of his mouth than the front door slams open. “You shouldn’t leave your doors unlocked,” comes the gruff voice of Alastor Moody. There’s a brief pause in which Ron and Hermione try to throw themselves into the pantry and out of sight, probably forgetting Mad-Eye’s mutation. Snape barely reacts and Sirius almost drops his still empty mug out of surprise.

Alastor looks practically identical to how Sirius remembers him. He’s still got a fake leg, and even with it he navigates the umbrella stand with more grace than Sirius and Snape combined. He still has a face twisted by scars, and his eyes are still uneven. One isn’t fake though - it’s just heterochromia; one blue, one brown. He settles in the doorway to the room and his eyes wander over the kitchen.

“The two kids can stop hiding, I can see through walls.” There is a hisses _bloody hell_ from Ron as the pair emerge, looking flustered. “You get to tell Molly,” Moody says to Sirius, not really caring too much about the teenagers who have snuck away from home, “Anyway, Tonks and Kingsley found the twins.”

“And?” Sirius asks, curious despite himself, “Did they find Voldemort?”

Moody shrugs, “Don’t know,” he says, “They don’t remember the whole hour. Woke up in an Underground station, memories blank. Vance can’t find signs of memory tampering which suggests they forgot themselves--”

“That’s oddly non-murderous for Voldemort,” Ron mumbles, only for Hermione to hush him.

“No, that boy’s right,” Moody hums, “Still, they let their guard down and look what happened.”

“Constant vigilance,” several of them chorus, although Moody just squints at them. Sirius swallows a lump in his throat, he forgets that Moody doesn’t remember. How does it work, he wonders, why does he remember when Moody doesn’t. Moody died a year after he did, and yet Sirius was cursed to remember while the ex-auror wasn’t. He sighs, too many questions bouncing around his head.

“Dumbledore wants Remus to come and track him down,” Moody chews on the end of a cigar he’s pulled out of a coat pocket, ignoring the way Remus looks like he’s about to protest being treated like a glorified nose, “You and the kids might as well come, it will be harder for this Vol de Mort to manipulate you guys if there are more of you. Least that’s the theory-- I won’t tell Molly if you won’t.”

Sirius is already on his feet, “Where do we start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Snape was not impressed when somebody noted the similarity between his mutation and that of a sparkly vampire boy. He was mildly reassured when told the boy was evil. Less when pointed out he was part of a cult.]


	7. punishment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really bad at responding to comments last chapter, but just wanted to say a huge thank you to everyone dropping comments and kudos, y'all are amazing. Hope you continue to enjoy as I stumble my way through something resembling a plot here.

Tom eyes up the man in the corner. He’s a mutant - the nod from the doorman indicates as much - and there’s something about his form. Dark hair, oil clinging to his skin. He sneers around at the room. The sneer made him ugly. His face was not unhandsome, but it was sallow, skin pale and hair too dark and lanky to make him look like anything other than a slightly crow-like man.

Diagon Market is everything the Alley had once been and nothing like it. There is no magic in the air, no pots self-stirring or brooms in windows. But there is a distinct undercurrent of power. The occasionally hood that hides a physical manifestation of power, of scaled skin or diamond eyes. Various stalls are set up selling anything from food to trinkets. It’s cute. It’s quaint. It is the closest they’ll get to a safe haven in the middle of Sentinel Central.

A mutant passes too close to the sallow-faced man in the corner, jolting the table and sending his drink sloshing perilously. The sneer grows - his emotions are oddly stilted, forcefully controlled. Like they’ve been piled into a cardboard box and had the lid slammed closed.

He could just be someone with remarkable self-control. He’s almost the opposite of Harry, who wears his emotions on his sleeve. Who, even after all these months, is still impossible for Tom to lose to track of even in a crowd.

Except Tom known legilimency and occlumency, and although there is differences in this world - there is no magic shield or route through into someone’s thoughts - the principles of arranging your thoughts and memories stay the same. It had helped with Tom’s emotional overload in crowds and he suspects it is the source of this man’s calm, slow moving emotions.

The man remembers. This man… he eyes him up in his peripheral vision and it takes him a second too-long to recognise him. He sees the image behind his eyelids of a torn throat, blood and venom mixing black on the wooden floor of dust and--

Tom watches Severus Snape stand with slow, deliberate movements, forgetting his drink as he begins to skulk around their hub of activity. Tom slips closer, biding his time for a moment before stepping forwards with a greeting, “You’re looking a little lost - I haven’t seen you around here before.”

He enjoys the man’s flinch of surprise as he turns to find Tom right there. But more than that he appreciates the blank look of indifference, not a single spark of recognition flaring. It’s not unusual, not for him aged out by fifty-odd years and ventures into dark magic. “Aren’t you a little young to be hanging around in establishments like this?” Snape drawls, tone irritated and just like Tom remembers.

He shrugs one shoulder in a smooth movement, a habit he’s picked up from Harry and refined, “Owch, so much judgement from a stranger,” he smirks, content in his own skin, in his disguise of his own youth and the _traitor_ looks right through him and then turns away, gaze scanning the crowds. Tom can pick out Harry with ease, but the younger boy’s acquired a knack for not being noticed. He’s lounging by the pool tables, one of those leather jackets with soft, fleeced arms, hood pulled up and form slouching as he chats to one of the kids there. He’s almost the same age he was when their last world jarred to an abrupt end yet there’s a sharpness to his face, his expression that rings haunted differences between the worlds.

Tom doesn’t doubt that the Harry before would not have spent the last two years playing Tom’s little games. He had to much moral quandaries that have already been brutally extinguished here and oh, it’s glorious to see.

Snape doesn’t look twice at Harry. His gaze scans the crowd, curiosity and impatient desperation faint in his emotions. He’s looking for them - he’s looking for the twins as people call them. For leaders, for criminals, not _teenagers._

“Maybe I can help?” Tom offers, plastering on a charming smile.

“I don’t think so,” Snape narrows his eyes unpleasantly, “I was just leaving.”

“Were you,” Tom’s voice is flat. It’s not a question. Black eyes bore into his and then flicker to one side as a woman steps up, glasses and a tight bun. With the same shatteredness that haunts most of his memories there is that few seconds pause in which he eyes up the woman who looks like she should be teaching and not hanging around in the Market.

“Tom Riddle,” she greets him by name as the face slots into place in his memories. _McGonagall_ . Tom stiffens, smirk sliding off his face. _Order members_. “We’d like to speak to you.”

McGonagall’s face is pinched, expression strained. Snape takes an involuntary step back, eyes widening in recognition at the name. A bead of sweat forms on his forehead.

Tom tilts his head, taking the pair in. Both look deeply uncomfortable, and that’s even before there is movement behind Tom as a tall, muscular man steps forwards. His features are twisted into animalistic wolfen-like and wild. Greyback holds variable respect for Tom on a good day, his once-lord turned teenager but still with that bite, still with the ambition - the wolfman doesn’t know how to treat Tom on a good day, but right now his looming presence is well-timed. “Problem, boss?” he growls out.

McGonagall raises a hand as if soothing a wild creature, “We just want to talk--”

“That’s _adorable_ ,” Tom croons, backing up slightly. A tactical retreat is not running. He hovers, enjoying the pure raw _terror_ that sparked in Snape at the sound of his name. His smile grows satisfied, “Do you, Minerva, or does _Dumbledore_ want to talk?”

There’s no point in pretences now. He feels the emotions of Severus settle, feels McGonagall’s spike to irritation and an omnipresent wariness that get shoved into a box as if bracing himself. A part of Tom is itching for the fight but another part--

The Order is here. In London. In the heart of the business they’ve set up, Dumbledore is _here_ \--

Across Snape’s shoulder Tom meets shadowed green eyes looking panicked. Slim seeker-agile body already twisting around patrons as if to swoop in and rescue Tom. Harry’s gaze settles on Snape and McGonagall for a long moment, and for a second Tom is convinced Harry is going to open his mouth and speak up. It is, after all, the logical thing to do.

But Harry steps to the side, head jerking towards the door, green eyes flinty when he looks at the pair. _What has made you so vindictive_ , he wants to ask Harry, why avoid your once-allies, but he doesn’t want to question it.

“Dumbledore just wants to talk. Not fight. There is no need to be enemies - you’re not Voldemort here.”

Tom pretends to be lazily interested, following Harry’s path across the indoor Market with such a brutal efficiency that at least two people throw themselves out of the way which suggests he’s coercing them, “And yet you still quiver with fear,” he mocks, pretending to consider their options. Greyback has started growling next to him, like an actual wolf.

“We’d be fools not to,” there’s half a second pause in which Tom can hear the ‘my lord’ that should fall there but doesn’t. He tried to remember anything else about the man but all he can think is how satisfying it had been to watch Nagini tear out his throat. How useless.

“I’m not interested,” Tom turns away, “Better watch yourself, you’re in my territory now.”

Snape grows more confident, eyeing up Tom’s lanky teenage form, “If you think we’re scared of your half-mutated mutt--”

“Why don’t you say that to my _face_ ?” Fenrir’s teeth are too big for his mouth. Snape scoffs, eyes darkening and Tom can only begin to ponder at his mutation before McGonagall is stepping between them, distracted by the pair’s growing argument and Tom slips to one side, stalking off. It’s not running away if it’s _tactical_ , and right now avoiding Dumbledore is very, a very very sensible decision to make. It’s too easy to flare up the anger in Greyback, to shove a load onto Snape’s nicely organised box of emotions and to step away from the brewing argument.

Bright throbbing emotions, lit like a sun, appear next to him. “Are you okay?”

“I am perfectly capable of looking after myself,” Tom drawls to where Harry is shooting worried glances at the pair who are still dealing with an angry Greyback who looks seconds away from ripping out their throats. He turns back, green eyes like the killing curse.

“I know,” Harry shrugs, “But I still don’t trust you not to murder anyone.”

Tom rolls his eyes. It’s an old, almost fond excuse now. It’s almost warm, like a soft candle against his mutation and so naturally he’s acutely aware of the moment it’s snuffed out leaving a cold, dark void.

*

Snape and Greyback looks seconds away from tearing each other’s throats out, and a few of the other people Tom and Harry know are getting curious now. Harry tugs open the side door to the market, hidden behind one of the stalls and steps out, turning to where Tom has frozen oddly.

“Something’s wrong,” Tom says, following Harry out into the cool outdoors, the older boy’s brow furrowed and gaze oddly fixed on Harry. He reaches forwards as if to cup Harry’s cheek and reassure himself that Harry is still standing there, “We need to go, we need to--”

Harry’s already mentally plotting out routes, shortcuts and ways out, can’t quite pick up on what has Tom so anxious, not until another voice interjects into their conversation. “No,” the person steps slowly into view, face pointed and thin and eyes stern and Harry walks into Tom’s back as he pulls up sharply, “No, you two aren’t going anywhere. Don’t try to run, we just want to talk.”

It’s like a punch in the gut, vicious cruel hurt digging in. Dumbledore does not look at old as he did in their previous life which makes sense - not even mutants live to be over a hundred in perfect health. He still looks old, beard still white but cut shorter, neater, clothes still bright and painful to look at but painfully muggle, not a robe in sight.

He’s grown to accept the decisions Dumbledore made but the hurt attached is still raw, still painful, the sight of him standing there alive and--

Shapes shift in the shadows, faces he recognises even as he hears the click of the gun and Shacklebolt appears, “Don’t speak,” he says, warningly.

“Come on,” Tom drawls, “No need for _guns--_ ” he stops suddenly, and Shacklebolt glances sideways at Dumbledore who just nods. Tom chokes slightly, and Harry steps sideways into the warmth of his body, confused, his back still turned to the Order. He reaches for his power, the warmth at the base of his spine. Tries to reach out and loop it around Kingsley’s thoughts but it slips away from him--

“What--” he can’t use it. He can feel it there but it…

There’s a glassy, slippery wall in Harry’s head. Bile stings his throat. The words are there but the power isn’t.

“Minerva turned off your powers,” Dumbledore observes, eyes twinkling, “It’s why we sent her and Severus in first, I do hope they’re still okay in there. Your powers won’t work within a certain radius or until she turns them back on so no more manipulations, right, Tom?”

Harry’s close enough to feel the way Tom stiffens, the way he turns into a statue next to him. A stone already made ruin, Harry feels his own cracks grate like chalk on a blackboard as Tom flicks down his hood with careless ease that does nothing to betray the way his pulse flutters and muscles hide ingrained flinches. “Dumbledore,” Tom says, tone more even and balanced than Voldemort _ever_ was, it would be pleasant almost were Harry not familiar with the polite disdain rotting at the edge of the words, “I’d say it was a pleasure, but--- well, I don’t want to lie…”

“This is him?” Kingsley asks, gun wavering and glancing sharply at Dumbledore, “He’s a _teenager_ \--”

“Yes,” Dumbledore searches Tom’s face, but for what it isn’t clear. “What did you do, Tom? Did resurrection grant you the immortality you so desired?” he sounds sad, confused and searching for answers that aren’t coming.

“I didn’t think mundanes lived long over 100,” Tom drawls, “You’re looking good for your age, old man.”

“Let’s just get it over with and cuff him,” someone shifts behind Dumbledore, and it’s like ice stabbing into Harry’s heart as Sirius steps into view. “Minerva’s powers don’t last forever--”

Dumbledore sighs, like he’s observing an errant child doing something wrong, “Sirius,” he says, “Did Remus tell you--”

“Alastor.”

“Ah, and your entourage… I trust Molly isn’t aware---”

“You’re going up against Voldemort!” another male adds, “We deserve to be here more than any of you, we were _this_ close to defeating him last time--”

Someone takes Harry’s heart and squeezes it in their fist. He sees Ron, fingers gesturing as he tries to indicate how close they had come on their horcrux hunt, sees Hermione next to Ron, expression hovering between anxiety and stone cold determination--

It hurts, just a bit. A wolf claws its way down his throat and make it’s home; all winter-ragged pelt and stick-thin bones. A wolf, alone, without it’s pack and _that hurts_ but his pack are here. Relief sinks in, just a bit.

His friends are here and alive and--

Harry can’t find the words, his throat is closing up with hurt and _they were together, they were all together and they had left him_ \--

It’s like fifth year but a hundred times worse.

Logically he knows things aren’t that simple. The way the die fell left everyone in different places, different lives and Harry has not exactly tried very hard to find them but still--

Loneliness is a wound that never quite heals right.

“Come with us quietly, Tom. Don’t fight, we know what you can do. I just want to talk to you and your… friend?” a pause, Dumbledore’s head tilts, “I didn’t take you for one to share power in your domination of London’s criminal underground.”

“Does it _matter_ ?” Sirius asks in frustration, “Just shoot him already, he’s a genocidal _maniac_ \--”

Kingsley’s gun moves and Harry’s spinning to face the Order fully, stepping forwards before he even realises it, shoving Tom behind him, “ _Don’t_ ,” he says, but there’s no power to the word no matter how much he tries to slip it in. “That,” Harry says, in response to Dumbledore, “Is a fucking exaggeration, we’re not running _anything_ \--”

“Well--” Tom likes to rub salt in the wounds.

“Shut up,” Harry snaps, and Tom, surprisingly, does. The silence hangs heavy in the air. He’s almost glad that right now Tom can’t feel his emotions, can’t tell how helpless and lost he feels in that moment. His hand trembles and he looks up, meeting Dumbledore’s clear blue gaze, “You have proof of _nothing_ ,” he says, and he’s covering his own back as much as Tom’s, hiding his own crimes and shady past.

Dumbledore looks like he’s been punched. It’s enjoyable to see the old man reeling, an out of control teetering ship in the high seas for a second before the guilt settles oily and greasy in Harry’s stomach. “ _Harry_ ,” he barely breathes, but it gets a reaction from the Order. Shacklebolt’s jaw drops, Sirius lets out a pained whine and Ron and Hermione both takes steps forwards.

“Harry?” Hermione repeats, so much hope packed into that one word. “What--?”

He meets Dumbledore’s gaze again and wishes he hadn’t. “ _Harry_ ,” The man’s expression just _cracks_ , and it feels like Harry’s looking at the mirror, cracked around that ice blue gaze that stares back at him. It’s weight is that of a black hole, condemning and gravity dragging him in. The scales already weighed, impressions already made the moment he realises who stands before him and that’s before Tom takes an automatic step back, drawing the old man’s attention to him, “You’ve been with Tom. All this time...”

He didn’t think it was possible for that tone to grow colder, but it does.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he tries to joke, tries to make his voice light and airy but it comes out like a lead weight.

“But it’s _Voldemort_ ,” Ron chokes out, “Do you remember us? Does he remember us?” he turns to Hermione and Sirius, “Maybe his memory is still addled, why else would he be hanging around with a young Voldemort--”

“He’s a manipulator,” Sirius says, and Harry flinches, “He’s manipulating you, Harry--”

His breath catches in his throat, chokes him. They think _Tom’s_ the _manipulator_ , that _Tom’s_ controlling Harry--

“Harry, step away from Voldemort. I’m your godfather, these are your friends, we’ve been looking for you--”

“Have you?” it comes out blunter than he intended. Flat and dead sounding. Sirius flinches. Dumbledore is watching with too-knowing eyes, gaze flickering to where Tom stands still smug at Harry’s back. “I remember everything,” he says, “And I’m not being manipulated--”

“That’s just what someone being manipulated would say,” Ron points out, and the hint of a smile curls at Harry’s lip as he meets the redhead’s gaze. Relief and happiness shines there along with pure _joy_ at seeing Harry.

“Harry,” Dumbledore steps forwards and the smile falls of Harry’s face to be replaced by nausea. That sick heady feeling of walking into the forest with the press of Snape’s memories and Dumbledore’s words still on his conscience, “Tom’s manipulating you,” his words are carefully enunciated, like that might make it clearer, “He’s been controlling you, but Minerva’s turned your powers off. If you think it through, if you give it a few minutes you’ll be able to see clearly.”

“Me? Manipulate _Harry_?” behind Harry, Tom can’t quite stop the hysterical laugh that wells up. Glancing at the other teenager, Tom’s eyes are a shade to bright, fevered and darting around looking for an escape, “You’ve gone senile, old man.”

"He's _not_ ," Harry shakes his head. “Manipulating me, that is.” To Tom: “Stop it, you’re not being helpful.”

Tom gives him a look that clearly says he doesn’t care whether to be helpful or not, because right now they’re surrounded and without powers. Had he his empathy he’d probably enjoy Harry’s emotional conflict, the sadist. Their current situation would be intimidating were they not Harry’s friends, and even then there is still this distance between them, this gap of months, _years_ , a _lifetime_ that gapes like a giant bridge between them.

“Of course he’s not helpful,” Sirius protests, “It’s _Voldemort_.” It’s a lifetime away but Ron and Kingsley still flinch at the name, “He’s got Harry--”

“Sirius,” Hermione’s voice wavers, “Sirius, I don’t think he’s got Harry, I don’t think… they’re the _twins_ \--”

“No--”

Dumbledore’s gaze is too piercing and sees far too much. “Harry, even if he’s not Voldemort and even if he’s not using his mutation on you, Tom Riddle is still charming. You cannot trust him, and this criminal spree is drawing attention--”

Harry wants to snap at him, fury with Dumbledore rising and years in the making, “It’s not like that,” he shakes his head, feeling raw and vulnerable. Like he’s under interrogation. Like he’s weak and _defenceless_ without his words holding power, “I know he’s a sociopath but he’s more sane than Voldemort ever was--”

“Rude,” Tom chides, “But true - I’m a bit more… put together, shall we say?” the words are heavy blows, “And I’ve got Harry, of course,” he adds, twisting the bullet deeper, “It’s not like any of your cared enough for your precious saviour given how I found him…”

“You little piece of--”

“I told you to shut up,” Harry interrupts Sirius before he can start. “All of you,” he says when Sirius opens his mouth to - to insult or beg or plead, Harry doesn’t know. He just knows that if Sirius keeps talking, keeps looking at him like he had in the forest with that all-encompassing love of a parent Harry has never known then he’ll break. He can already feel the tears prickling and he _can’t_ \-- “Just shut up, I can’t _think_ ; what do you mean McGonagall turned off our powers?”

“She controls power frequencies,” Hermione explains gently, “She turned your mutations off in the market.”

“Then turn them back on!” Harry demands.

Dumbledore looks grave, “You understand why we can’t do that, surely. Harry, Tom is not trustworthy.”

“Well at least he never turned my mutation off without permission!”

“Harry,” Hermione asks warily, “Will you come with us? We’re sorry we didn’t find you earlier, but we found you now… _please_ \---”

“Turn our mutations back on,” Harry says, “And I’ll go with you.”

“No,” Ron says so quickly it's in response to something else, not Harry. Chess-sharp eyes focus and then unfocus, "No, that's not a good idea. Mate, reformed or not, you're standing besides an ex-Dark Lord, genocidal maniac. We're not going to give him back the power to manipulate us and string us along like puppets. He's got free access to a built-in Imperius Curse."

Harry stares at Ron, "Then give me mine back," he says, bluntly, "Tom’s mutation stays turned off... come on, guys. You... you trust me, right?" his voice wavers. It's not an act. The distrust directed at him chips at his heart. Betrayal and hurt because why didn't they find him, they found each other easily enough.

He doesn't think about the next step. He's aware of the way Ron tilts his head, aware of how the mutations twist traits he had once thought funny quirks. Hermione's always had a skill with flames, and Ron's always been good at chess. He doesn't make a plan because he's best at thinking on his feet in the heat of the moment and Ron's good at strategy and so he meets their gazes earnestly, his question still hanging in the air.

"Do you trust me?"

"Oh Harry," Hermione says, "Of course we trust you. It's just--"

Dumbledore glances at Ron who just nods, hesitantly, "Okay," he says, "Tom's powers stay turned off, Minerva will turn yours back on." He nods to someone over Tom and Harry’s shoulder, and Harry glances back to see McGonagall standing in the door they’d exited the market from. He can’t see Snape, hopes the sallow-faced Professor is still in a brawl with Greyback.

There’s a pause and Harry waits for something to change or to feel different. He catches Tom’s dark eyes, wary and unreadable. This time when Harry reaches for the cyanide power, it comes springing up as if it _wants_ to be used. He shudders, sees Tom take half a step back as Harry makes his decision.

Ron, standing over by Hermione, stiffens suddenly, head snapping up as if he knows what Harry’s going to do next, as if he’s seen five moves ahead of the chessboard.

“Harry, _don’t_ \--”

“ _No powers_ ,” Harry says, words curling off his tongue like milk chocolate, “Professor McGonagall, _turn Tom’s mutation back on_.”

Dumbledore _flinches_ , “Harry, you’re--” Shacklebolt and Sirius both takes steps forwards even before Harry wraps mental tendrils around them to keep them in place. The cyanide strands waver, emotional upheaval making them tremble. They won’t hold for long. “You’re a manipulator,” Dumbledore realises, “You--”

“ _Stop talking_ ,” Harry snaps. It’s in his voice, it’s pouring off his words so strongly Dumbledore’s teeth click closed almost biting his own tongue. Harry shakes his head wildly. “I don’t want to hear what you have to say right now, Professor.”

The Order’s eyes are accusing. Condemning. That's a murderer, they say, that's Voldemort, a monster and he doesn't know how to explain that Tom isn't Voldemort.

“Harry,” Hermione starts talking, as if not sure she still has control of her tongue and that frisson of fear is _painful_ , “What are you doing? That’s _Voldemort_ . The monster that killed your parents, that tried to kill _you_ \--”

“He’s not Voldemort,” Harry lies. And it is a lie, at its core - Tom was Voldemort. He can’t deny that, it’s irrefutable fact but right now the boy standing behind him is less monster and more human than Voldemort had ever meet, “He’s _not_ ,” he reiterates, “And he was there for me when I didn’t even know if you were alive or not. I’m… I just…” he can’t put it into words, can’t explain the way his thoughts tumble over each other. He can’t do this now, he needs space, needs time, needs to be somewhere where he doesn’t have the pressure of Sirius looking at him with those pleading eyes, the heart-wrenching tear of seeing Ron and Hermione alive and breathing, and the cold ice in his veins from seeing Dumbledore’s judgement.

“Harry--” Tom speaks up slowly, as if by speaking somehow he’ll change Harry’s mind.

“Let’s go,” Harry says, I’m sorry, he mouths at Ron and Hermione, sees their confusion, their devastation and--

Guilt claws at his stomach and he doesn’t hesitate. He turns away.

“Harry, you don’t need to do this,” Dumbledore presses through Harry’s mutation, worn thin over too many minds, “We’re here to help, my boy--”

“Don’t play that, old man,” Tom sneers, “He’s not _your boy_ , you sent him out like a sacrifical _lamb for slaughter_ . He’s not _yours_ , anymore--”

“Tom,” it's not an instruction, just a warning but it forces Tom's jaws shut with a definite click.

He looks annoyed, like a cat who has been poked instead of petted, but remains glaring at Dumbledore for a moment before spinning around, "Let's get out of here," he says, gesturing at Harry.

The line between Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort has to count for something.

Harry will defend it, will nurture and care for the human part of Tom Riddle that he knows. It condemns him, in a way, to be so damn caring for the man who had made his old world a series of disasters one after the other.  It makes him just as guilty, defending his crimes, but he stands his ground and doesn't move.

“ _Don’t follow_ ,” he says, leaving one last instruction. It’s not permanent, it will wear off and he has no doubt they’ll chase him down. He almost hopes they do, they deserve to be the ones on the other side of this for a change, a small part of him thinks vindictively.

He sees the fond annoyance and bewilderment in Ron and Hermione’s eyes; that understanding that has come from years of friendship that think they _know_ why he’s doing this. It’s the same look he sees in Tom’s eyes except there is bewilderment there too because this isn’t just anyone, this is _Voldemort_.

They all think he’s trying to save Tom’s soul; Ron, Hermione, Tom himself. He doesn’t know how to explain how that he’s not trying to atone for Tom’s sins.

He’s trying to atone for his own.

*

Tom’s angry.

Harry is not the empath, but he can sense it. Like an extra limb, Tom’s body is tense, eyes too-bright and the silences stretch too long as they leave Dumbledore and the Order behind. Harry can’t understand why he’s so angry, indignation flares because Harry saved his damn _hide_ . “Did you _want_ to get interrogated by the Order of the Phoenix?” he snaps, rounding on Tom earlier than intended. He is expecting to be met with teeth fully bared, not this terrible sort of rawness to Tom’s expression.

“Why did you do that?”

The question hangs in the air. Voldemort… _Tom_ … stalks behind him, his very character and personality a dissonance. A crack in space and time and a formulation that still makes his head spin. A similarity hangs between them, a connection he knows has Riddle irritatingly persistent, present and _there_. Whatever souls are made of, Harry quotes in his head, his and mine are the same.

He doesn’t answer the question, stumbles away through the daylight savings time gloom of London, ignoring the drizzle. Tom slides into his footsteps like a dark shadow Harry has never managed to shake.

“Potter-- _Harry--”_ Riddle’s voice grows irritated, a hand catches his shoulder and spins him around, “Don’t _walk away from me_ ,” he snarls, too old for the seventeen year old visage he haunts, “You turned away from your precious little Order. To Dumbledore. _Why_?”

Harry tries to shove him off but fingers curl around the thin skin of Harry’s wrist feeling the butterfly pulse there. His heart thumps against his chest, ribs made of glass, teeth made of porcelain, a delicance about that moment that can know no permanence. “If I leave you…” he searches for words, “We have plans, things to do and… If I leave what then? What do you become? What do you _do_?”

Tom’s face twists, handsomeness broken into cruelty. “What am I to you; a _pet project_ ? Making sure I don’t become Voldemort again? Do you think I’m some sort of punishment? Some sort of demon sent to haunt you? I’m not _your responsibility_ , Potter.”

Harry’s laugh is a twisted thing, “You think I _care_ about your redemption? You, who has the blood of _hundreds_ on his hands--”

“Wrong world, Harry, darling,” Tom’s head tilts, too perception, too in-tune with Harry’s emotions, “That’s not it, no… no if you don’t feel responsible for me, then what _do_ you feel responsible for, huh?” Harry’s jaw clicks shut and Tom’s smile grows, “That’s it, isn’t it? I’m _right_?” a note of triumph creeps into his voice.

“No,” he shakes his head.

“Li-ie,” Tom mocks, too smugly, too confidently.

“I can’t,” Harry chokes. “I… “You already said it, you’re my punishment,” Harry sneers, anger and guilt still warring within him but it’s draining. “Aren’t you?”

“What do you feel responsible for, Harry?” Tom says, quietly, “Why were you avoiding your friends?”

Harry doesn’t flinch or hesitate. He eyes Tom up for a long moment that seems to last forever before nodding slowly. And maybe it’s easier to admit this to Tom than it would be to tell Dumbledore or his friends, “I did this,” he breathes, like he’s kneeling in a confessional, “This world, I _did this_.”

“You think a lot of yourself,” Tom narrows his eyes, suspicious and confused.

“No, you don’t understand, _I did this_ ,” his voice is determined, stubborn and resolute, “This is my fault, Tom, I did this to us. I destroyed our old world in one foolish thought and… and… how could I face them, knowing that?”

“You’re not making sense.”

Harry’s laugh is hysterical, “Of course not. You didn’t know. You didn’t _care_ , you just wanted the _wand_ , you didn’t care about the other two. The cloak was mine and Dumbledore _gave me_ you fucking _ring_ , like a _prize_ , like a _consolidation_ , here you go Potter, you get to die but at least you can talk to your dead parents once more--”

“You’re not _making sense_ ,” Tom says again, grabbing Harry’s shoulders, wanting to shake the smaller boy but the way Harry’s green acid gaze is cracked makes him still. “Harry--”

“I united the Hallows,” the words sit in the air between them, sickness clinging to them, “I beat you, I know you don’t remember but I killed you. I won the wand; I already had the cloak and the stone and then I had the wand and you were dead and _everyone was dead_ and I… I just wanted it to go better, I wanted us to have another go and… and... “ he can’t talk, the words stick to his throat, blood coated and sour. “Don’t you get it, Tom? This _world_ ? _You?_ This world is my punishment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tom will never admit it, but losing the Elder Wand might have been the best thing he ever did if it gave him this life, soul whole and...well...mostly intact.  
> He's got Harry, that's intact enough for him.]


	8. ink stain that he can't voice

“Does dying hurt?” Harry asks. It’s childish, but it slips out anyway. He feels like he’s five, not seventeen and about to die. The forest is dark around him, misty in a way that feels like it isn’t there. The colours make it flat, a single dimension and the only real thing among the trees is his own flesh and the shadows of his family around him.

“It’s quicker and easier than falling asleep,” Sirius tells him, and Lily holds out her palm as if she might be able to hold her son’s hand in death as she never could in life.

The stone is hoarfrost in his hand and it’s the easiest thing to curls his fingers around it, tightening his grip until it digs an imprint into his skin. The cloak is shoved into an inner pocket of his jacket and he faces death with his head held high.

And he dies.

And he _wakes up._

He fakes his death, lies so so still until he can’t feel his heart beating. And then he stands up and _fights_.

Voldemort’s nostrils - what’s left of them - flare in rage. His eyes are scarlet red. This monster has terrified and haunted Harry for _years_.

The body of the snake lies in _pieces_. Words fall between them like ashes from a fire that’s been burning for far too long. They curl sooty on his tongue, and in contrast the words of the disarming charm are sharp gasoline.

People would think it was stupid, using a disarming charm. It’s _weak_ , _pathetic_ ; they don’t get it. It’s not about beating Voldemort. Harry has already won. It’s not about magical superiority, or making sure he gets knocked out. There’s no need for a stunner or blasting curse or even an Unforgivable were Harry so inclined. It’s not about that, _it’s about the wand_ and the wand…

The Elder Wand _knows_ \--

Harry is it’s Master and it dances free of Voldemort’s grip, a wildly spinning killing curse flying out as it spins across the Great Hall towards Harry. It hits his hand, wood against flesh and everything--

Everything _stops_.

Hogwarts shudders around him. The Hallows _burn_ in his hand. Harry meets Tom Riddle’s red red eyes in the seconds before the green of the killing curse explodes and thinks _this could have all been so so different_.

*

Harry’s shaking and Tom’s fingers are still wrapped around his wrist. “ _I did this_ ,” Harry is saying, looking like a thin leaf will blow him over. “I united the Hallows and I wanted everyone to live. I just wanted the war _over_ , I didn’t want _this_.”

“But isn’t it better?” Tom grabs tries to steady the younger boy, “Isn’t the war over?”

“Is it?” Harry just stares so so desolately, “My parents still died. Grindelwald’s still raging a war, except it’s on mundanes and not muggles. And I… I _destroyed_ an entire world, Tom,” his voice is barely a whisper, a leaf falling in a forest that cracks dry and broken, “I did this; this whole world is my creation. Is it all a lie?” his head tilts, eyes wide and the green red-rimmed.

Tom can feel the cliff edge he’s standing on. This world, the prospects, the potential here is limited, yes, but also it’s infinitely more than he had before. (Then again anything is more potential than his own imminent death). Harry wavers and his emotions flare warm and bright and of course they feel familiar, a part of Tom has been pressed against them for _years_ . In that instance Tom sees the boy in front of him, war-haggard and _triumphant_.

Harry had _won_ . Harry had won and Tom had fallen and maybe that’s why he’s destined to chase after this infuriating boy who still thinks all the crimes of the world should fall onto his shoulders. He drops Harry’s wrist in favour of sinking his fingers like claws into the boy’s shoulders, “Snap out of it,” he says, not gently (because Tom doesn’t do gentle) but stabilizing. Giving back a little bit of that support that Harry had unconsciously been providing his soul-torn soul. Harry meets his gaze, eyes hazy and out of focus, “Harry, we are real. This is _real_.”

“Is it?” a tone so desolate, beaten and trodden down into the dirt, “I united the Hallows, Tom. I’m the Master of Death. This? This is my punishment.”

“Does it matter?” Tom snaps, “That other world? It’s gone. It’s not coming back, _move on_ \--”

There are a hundred oil-slick compulsions in his head from Harry with the explicit instruction of ‘don’t mess with my emotions’ but Tom’s always been good with words, and technically he’s not messing with Harry’s emotions; he’s imposing his own on the boy. Or more accurately his _lack_ of them.

He’s not a complete void, but in comparison to the hurricane that is Harry, Tom is a spot of calm in the storm. Harry flinches, eyes focussing on Tom, flecks of brown in the green of his eyes. Harry hitches a breath, as if gearing himself and bats rather uselessly at where Tom is still holding onto his shoulders, “Let go of me,” he mumbles, no power to it.

“Are you done with the guilt trip?” Tom demands.

“Fuck you.”

Tom lets go, smugly satisfied and peels away his emotions from where they’re pressed over Harry’s panic and self-loathing. “I guess this explains how Dumbledore hitched a memory ride, then? He held the wand once-- and your parents knew too--”

“Of course they knew,” Harry says, “I used the stone to summon them, they were there in spirit if not body. Dumbledore too… yet even being there didn’t save them in this world…” he trails off.

“Fate’s a bitch,” Tom says, cockney accent slipping through, rough and crass and it’s like he’s eleven again standing on the platform next to a scarlet steam train surrounded by strangers.

And then the hat had called out Slytherin and he’d been thrown in the deep end. He wonders, for a moment, how things would have turned out had he known Harry then, or if he’d even cast the other boy a glance, Gryffindor and too too _good_.

Harry lets out a breathless laugh, eyeing Tom oddly, “Yeah,” he says slowly, “It is. Coming from you especially, it really kind of is.”

“There’s no prophecy here,” Tom shrugs, besides it’s not like he even remembers what the last one said. “This world is what we make it. It’s all about the potential.”

Emotion is a weakness, he thinks, but no, emotion is a strength but only if you use it right, harness it, refine it, chip away the weak points (and there are always weak points). He doesn’t reach out, just let’s Harry’s emotions surge around him. Reassuring in their familiarity, they pulse like a heartbeat before settling on something not quite anger, and yet too strong to be fondness. “It doesn’t change the fact that I _destroyed_ the last one.”

“If you’re looking at it like that, we both did. I tore it down and you wiped the slate. But why tell me? Why not explain this to your friends?” he is still unsure of Harry’s emotions at the moment. He tests the waters, head tilting to one side, still chasing down an answer to the enigma that is Harry Potter, “Why run, Harry? Are you telling me that you think they won’t believe you? Or that they’ll blame you?”

“Wouldn’t _you_?”

Tom’s lips crack into a smile, “Why would I? Without you apparently I’d be dead.”

Harry’s close enough Tom can feel the heat of the other boy’s body against his skin, flushed and heart still thudding with every soft swirl of his emotions, like the tide in a storm. His expression is still odd, emotions still that odd fierce thing, “How appropriate,” Harry says, and it would be almost thoughtful did he not sound so lost and bitter, “Because without you I’m nothing. You defined my life, Tom Riddle. Dumbledore raised me to kill you, forged me into his perfect little weapon, ready to die on command. I guess it’s only suitable that we made each other, right?”

*

Memories come like nightmares in the night. He skulks down back alleys and he’s _eight_ , maybe nine he’s not sure what the date is and--

Runaways do not last. They just don’t. This is not some Enid Blyton book and this is not the 1940s where kids can survive on tinned spam and ginger beer. It’s rough and hard and gritty and he _stinks_. He can’t remember the last time he’s bathed. He would probably not remember the last time he ate either except his velvet words ensure at least he does not starve.

There is a man scurrying down the London street. Shabby. Greying tips to his hair, even though the face is youthful. There are three parallel lines across his nose and cheek. Like a claw mark.

He’s familiar. In Harry’s dreams at least. And some part of him wants to go to the man, run to him and speak to him and--

The man’s grey gaze flickers over him, lounging like an errant child waiting for a parent and moves on. If there is recognition it is not obvious.

Of course there isn’t recognition. This curse that haunts him; it must be a part of his mutation or something because it’s not like he’s met anyone else who remembers a second life. Or maybe he’s just crazy.

Or maybe it’s _real_ \--

Reality hurts though. Reality is cold streets and cobbles and a man he thinks he knows and a siren wailing in the distance and he slips away. Survival instincts that are more half-remembered memories slip through and he turns with that hunted haunted feeling that crawls along his bones like a skittering spider. He does what he is best at.

He runs.

He misses the moment Remus turns back to stare for the child with hauntingly familiar green eyes.

*

“I mean, it’s _Harry_ , of course he’s trying to help the guy. You know he has a saving-people thing--”

“It’s _V-Voldemort_ … not even Harry would try to save _You-Know Who_.”

Hermione stares rather helplessly at Ron who is still shaking his head in denial.

“No, he’s been manipulated. Or maybe he doesn’t remember, properly. Or maybe--”

“Or maybe,” she interrupts his tirade, “Maybe he isn’t any of those things. Maybe he’s just being Harry.”

The silence between them hangs heavy in the air, and Hermione barely realises that she’s reached out to grab Ron’s hand until he gives it a reassuring squeeze. She thinks about all the chances that happened to find him again in this life, the many tiny things that fell into place and then thinks that no, this would have happened anyway.

Maybe it was the same for Harry and Voldemort. _Tom_ as he had called the other boy, handsome face and dark eyes and a smile that was too smug, knew too many secrets. It was hard to match the teenager together with the monster she remembers only catching glimpses of before.

There’s a slam of a door from downstairs. It’s loud enough to make the whole house shake slightly, old Victorian structure creaking as someone moves around downstairs. Ron takes the few steps that separates him from the door and creaks it ajar. Loud, raised voices can be heard. Sirius’ angry demands, Snape’s sneers, Dumbledore’s calm reassurances that they’ll _find_ him, they’ll _rescue_ Harry and deal with _Tom_ , that name again hanging in the air and it’s easy when it’s a mockery of the boy the Dark Lord used to be, but that handsome teenager…

It’s no longer a taunt, truth bared for all to see. It’s reality, made flesh and brown eyes and a smug curling grip around Harry’s neck like a collar. Except _no_ \-- it’s not a collar. Tom Riddle does not hold the leash, “He doesn’t need rescuing, does he?” Hermione asks, as Ron closes the door on the Order’s meeting that they’ve been kicked out of. Like they’re children, when they’re really really not.

Everyone keeps forgetting that.

Sirius’ voice rises through from the floor below. “If we just get him away from Riddle--”

“Riddle’s not the problem, Black, the brat has an unforgivable at his beck and call and he clearly abuses it, didn’t you _hear_ \--”

“Severus, please--”

“Maybe he’s being blackmailed. We don’t know Riddle’s mutation, maybe he’s threatening Harry. Maybe he can _kill_ \--”

Ron shuts the door, “I want to get out of here,” he says through gritted teeth, “I can’t take them trying to plan stuff downstairs, I just keep seeing various iterations of the same argument. They’re not going to get anywhere.” His blue eyes keep drifting in and out of focus as he unconsciously focuses on the fragments of possibilities that spring into existence from the debate downstairs.

“Your mum would murder you,” Hermione worries at her bottom lip with too-large front teeth, “That’s if you didn’t get caught by the DMA.”

“Come to my funeral?”

“Stop being so dramatic.”

He flops onto the bed, looking as useless as Hermione feels. This is nothing like they envisioned. They had all the horror nightmares of finding Harry dead, of finding him in the DMA facilities, under the grip of Sentinel Services, or even the more promising thoughts of him surviving and living, of finding other mutants, other people who remembered--

Hermione had never considered _Tom Riddle_ to be one of them. Honestly she’d never even really thought about what would happen to Voldemort. He was dead, or as good as. At least he _had been_ but now…

They’d found the body of the Lestranges, but since then no sign of any ex-Death Eaters. Voldemort had not once been her consideration.

“Dumbledore knew,” she says, dully.

“What?”

“Dumbledore. He knew Harry was with Tom. He didn’t look surprised, didn’t you notice? Disappointed, judging, but surprised? Not once. He knew and didn’t say anything.”

“He knows a lot of things he doesn’t voice,” Ron says, sighing, “He’s always got so many things switching around him, it’s hard to tell what he’s planning but he’s always thinking things through. I guess that’s what you get for living so long.”

Hermione opens her mouth to respond when Ron sits bolt upright, half a second before there is a loud, almost apparition-like POP and a piece of paper materialises in mid air. It floats, like ashes, taking it’s time to drift to the soft bedspread and both Hermione and Ron freeze, staring at it.

“What the--” she starts to say.

“I saw it appear, but--”

She picks it up. It’s a single A4 sheet, folded in half messily and lined, like it’s been ripped out a notepad. She unfolds it already but she doesn’t need Ron’s short-term predictions to know who it’s from.

Harry’s messy scrawl has not changed. There’s not much to it; a time and a date, a place and a postcode. _Come alone_ , added to the end like an afterthought, like he doesn’t trust them not to tell and that hurts, _almost,_ except Hermione knows it’s well rooted since her first instinct is to tell Remus or Sirius.

“Useful power,” she says, voice thin and not voicing anything she’s really thinking. She doesn’t know what to think, how to voice it, because this is a hundred bad ideas written on one piece of paper and yet… “Well,” she says, grit and determination, “You said you wanted to get out of here, didn’t you?

*

Ron considers bringing along Sirius. But the moment he tells Hermione he’s filled with growing dread and regret. No images, but he knows it’s a bad idea. He doesn’t even think to bring up telling Dumbledore.

Outside the air is cold and fresh. London smog clings to the back of their throats, almost welcoming in it’s sticky embrace. The pavements are damp from dew, a plane flies overhead and there are distant siren wails. Their walk is slow, a meander through streets with terraced houses and parked cars and occasional dodging of the black uniformed DMA agent on patrol. They make it to the cafe named in the note without incident. It’s a small thing, located in the middle of a bustling London street. It’s hard to spot anyone coming but also easy to lose someone.

Hermione slips inside to grab seats and order Ron a coffee on instinct. He’s never picked up the knack of how to order coffee, even knowing what the drink is. He cranes his head - they’ve arrived early so Ron can try and scry out Harry and his decisions before he arrives, but when Harry does appear it’s unexpected.

Futures shift and he startles with the suddency of Harry’s appearance. Harry slips out of a shop awning adjacent to the cafe, green eyes hidden behind unfamiliar shaped glasses and face carefully blank yet still unable to hide the nervousness in his body. He doesn’t spot Ron initially, shifting nervously and gaze scanning the crowd.

There is no sign of Tom Riddle.

“Harry?” Ron asks from the doorway and his friend spins around, almost dropping his phone.

Ron takes another moment, waits for the impact of Harry stepping out to hit him or speak or… or… _something_ but there's nothing further. No hints that Voldemort is joining him, no signs that Harry's going to run.

Ron takes a deep breath because _this is Harry_. This shouldn’t be difficult. “Hermione’s grabbing a table,” he says, offering up a weak smile, “She’s getting drinks - I think she already ordered for us, you know how she is--”

“Yeah,” Harry looks like he’s been punched, and he clears his throat and speaks again, “Sure, that sounds good, that--” he stops as Hermione appears next to Ron.

“I’ve got us a--” she doesn’t get the sentence out, a small gasp escaping her as she spots Harry lingering there. Her brown eyes widen, “You came?” she asks, like she wasn’t sure he was going to.

“Of course, I asked to meet, didn’t I?” Harry asks. His smile is too wonky, lopsided and unsure, “It’s good to--”

Brown bushy hair blurs and Harry chokes on a mouthful of Hermione’s hair as she throws herself at Harry. He looks alarmed, seconds from bolting but relaxes into the hug, shooting Ron a desperate look as if hoping he’ll rescue him.

Ron doesn’t. He wraps lanky arms around both of them, “You’re an idiot,” he says to Harry, “A blood _idiot_ , what on earth were you _thinking_ \--”

“Oh, shut up,” Hermione pulls away, “I’ve got--” she’s suddenly aware that they’re standing in a public place, and it’s hard not to miss the way Harry’s tensed as if prepared to bolt, “I’ve got seats--”

The way Harry follows, checks around and eyes them up, so uncertain, so cautious hurts just a little bit. He sits across from them, separated by a table and stirring his drink distractedly with the air of one who has no intention of drinking it. There’s an awkward silence Ron is almost hesitant to break, there are so many possibilities swimming in the air. The potential for hope, for joy and for everything to go wrong all hangs there.

“We thought you were dead,” Hermione speaks up, “Once we remembered and had the resources we… we couldn’t track down your relatives. And Sirius said Lily and James ran--” Harry shrugs half-heartedly, not commenting as Hermione continues to talk, “And then the Order got the instructions to avoid London-- and you were here the whole time-- with--” she trails off, not sure how to broach the subject.

Harry doesn’t have the same aversion. “Tom,” he says, the name familiar in his mouth, and Ron can almost see the regret for meeting them here blossom, “He’s not the issue here. I’m not here to talk about Tom…” Harry’s decisions skitter like he’s got five plans on the go and all simultaneously alternating from one to the other. The flashes it gives Ron is almost-headache inducing, except none are concrete enough to give him anything more than mere impressions. He sits there, half-scared, half-hollowed out like he’s waiting for a blow that doesn’t come.

He’s thin, Ron thinks - but the he’s always been lean. Once again Ron is tall, he towers over both Harry and Hermione with ease but there’s definition in the way Harry stands, or a sheen of health that suggests despite a rough childhood Harry's managed to settle. Managed to make-do, to live, to eat, to--

"We were so worried," Hermione mumbles, wringing at a serviette, not realising that she’s tearing it into shreds. "I'm so sorry we didn't find you, we wanted to, we really did and we tried, we spent so long searching with Remus and Sirius--"

"I'm not angry," Harry says, "I'm not-- I'm... I should have found you, tried harder but I... I couldn't..." he shakes his head, won’t meet their gaze. “The Dursleys…” the flash of something dramatic that he shies away from, “They moved when I was eight. Didn’t take me with them,” he shrugs, “The DMA picked me up when I was thirteen--”

“Shit,” Ron says.

Harry’s smile is too wry, “Pretty much. Got caught trying to steal something by convincing a shopkeeper to let me leave without paying one too many times. Didn’t think about cameras, the DMA caught wind and they stuck me in one of their facilities. I was there about a year and it…” he shakes his head, like a fly is bothering him.

“Was that where you met Vol--Riddle?”

He dodges the question entirely, “Luna was there, did she… do you know what--”

“She’s fine,” Ron says, and Harry visibly relaxes, “We figured out you were there, but had no idea of whether they’d moved you or where you’d ended up. You were gone when the Order raided the place.”

“I got out before then. Escaped. Barely got away from Umbridge…” he cuts himself off, “They used to give me something - made everything hazy, to stop resistance. To curb my powers but she liked this mask… I got too mouthy one day and they… I don’t know what they were going to do, but Tom got me out. They had some sort of chip inhibiting his mutation, so we--”

“You left it in, right?” Ron can’t help but ask, even though he _knows_ Riddle has his powers, Harry had demanded McGonagall turn them back on after all.

Harry’s face twists, “No, that’s _foul_ ,” he says, “Are you saying you’d _want_ a piece of tech in your _brain_ that stops your--” he pauses, “What is it, anyway? Chess strategies?”

“Possibilities,” Ron says, oddly defensive, “Short-term divination, I guess… who’d have thought huh, given Trelawney and everything that I could get glimpses of the future. What about you, the _Imperius Curse_?”

Harry can’t quite hide the flinch, “It’s not like I get to pick,” he snaps, defensively. Too many thorns that cut that Ron didn’t even know were there to avoid them, “Besides, it’s been useful. You don't get to judge. I may not always have liked it, but manipulation is the only thing that's gotten me this far alive. I'm sorry," he says, again, uselessly.

Hermione shakes her head. There are tears glistening in her eyes, “You don’t have to apologise,” she says, “Like you said you don’t get to pick. I… I start fires. And control them but I… that part is hard. I spent most of my childhood starting accidental fires whenever I was stressed, and that was before the memory bleed through started when I was about 10--”

“You do remember everything, right?” Ron checks, even though the answer should be obvious, “Some of the Order don’t, and we’ve known for _years_ but Mum thought I was making it up. Fred and George used to tease me for making up a world about magic for months before they started to remember.”

Harry takes a sip of his drink, as if to avoid answering, “The Battle of Hogwarts,” he says, meeting their reaching, searching gazes, “Everyone within the wards remember, eventually.” He offers them a small smile, “I’d glad you’re alive,” he says, and it sounds like he’s changing the subject but Ron gets the feeling he isn’t really. “I… I used to have nightmares about that battle, and I couldn’t remember if you were alive or dead, I just remembered that forest and a green light and it was like I was holding ice--”

“You went into the forest,” Hermione says, “You stupid _stupid--_ ”

“It worked,” Harry interrupts, tone harsh, “It got rid of the horcrux in me, I ended up duelling Voldemort in the courtyard and--”

There’s silence, “And nobody remembers anything further,” Ron says, shortly, “Dumbledore thinks Hogwarts’ wards tried to protect everyone, but that doesn’t explain why Sirius remembers.”

“It’s not Hogwarts,” Harry says, bluntly.

“That’s the best theory we have,” Hermione chides, gently, “Dumbledore’s the only person buried on Hogwarts grounds, so that would make sense. Sirius less so, but he fell through the veil so that might have influence on events--”

“It’s not Hogwarts,” Harry repeats, “Sirius and Dumbledore don’t remember because of the Veil and Hogwarts, they remembered because I summoned them with the Resurrection Stone.” Hermione opens her mouth but Ron stops her interrupting with a hand on her shoulder because Harry’s still talking, “That’s why my parents ran in this world, they remembered too. Their spirits were on the grounds when I… when the Hallows united. The backlash caught everyone within Hogwarts’ wards at the time with me as a kind of...centrepoint, I guess, which is why you guys and Tom remembered sooner. You were closer to the crack. To me. This is my fault,” his green eyes are dull, flitting from Hermione to Ron and full of uncertainty, “This whole thing, I’m so _sorry_ \--”

“Why-- why are you apologising?” Hermione asks, “How is this your fault--?”

Ron can already see the answer. The only reason he doesn’t ask is because he sees the words in the air already, can see the symbol on Harry’s tongue, an ink stain that he can’t voice, “You united the Hallows,” he says for his best friend, and Harry shoots him a relieved look. Hermione lets out a gasp of surprise, and Harry just nods, “You actually-- all three--?”

“I used the stone in the forest. I had the cloak in my pocket. And then Voldemort and I were duelling, and our wands kept making spells rebound, even though he didn’t have the phoenix feather and an expelliarmus hit him and… _I just wanted everything to be_ **_better_ **, but this… this isn’t better. I destroyed a whole world, how is this better? This world is of my making and it’s anything but better.”

*

A part of Harry had hoped Ron and Hermione wouldn’t show. Another part had hoped that they would.

Fear and doubt had plagued him. He’s relieved they turned up alone, he doesn’t know what he would have done if Sirius had been there. If _Dumbledore_ had been there.

He examines their faces, so uncertain, so cautious, so _alive_ . Not a trace of the war-stained expressions he remembers. Their expressions waver as they try to comprehend the bombshell he’s dropped on them and he almost wishes he had Tom’s powers so he could figure it out, tease the emotions apart that are flitting across their faces. “But you’d had the stone for months. It _was_ in the snitch, wasn’t it?” Hermione is frowning.

“I’d had the wand for weeks too,” Harry points out, “Dumbledore was disarmed by Malfoy who was disarmed by me. Voldemort never had it in the first place, it was already mine and the moment I held all three everything just…” he shakes his head, words failing him for once in his life, “I didn’t _mean_ to,” he adds, wildly, “But I did and I… I didn’t know how to tell you, to tell anyone. I… I caused this _shift_ in reality. It’s like I time travelled and erased hundreds of people from existence and everything is different and yet the same and--” he trails off, not sure how to explain the jarring _guilt_ that claws at him.

Why did Harry get this power, this one wish and get it twisted so _far_ from what he had meant?

“It’s not worse,” Ron seems to be trying to reason it through, “Not the way the wizarding world was going--” but his voice is trailing off, because it’s an impossible concept to comprehend, really. Harry destroyed an entire _universe_ . With one errant thought he ripped it to shreds and reforged it. And sure, he thinks, glancing around, there’s nothing superficially wrong with it and few people realise the document has been edited and re-saved but _he knows_ \--

Hogwarts, magic - it had been his _home_ , his _life_ , and he had torn that into something unfamiliar and terrifying where they were all in the middle of a war for their rights and lives.

"This world is better,” Hermione says, voice strong, “Everyone is alive--"

"Are they?" he interupts, harshly.

“Yes,” she says, frowning, “Fred, Tonks, Remus…”

“My parents aren't."

Hermione's rant chokes and dies.

"They still died," Harry says, a horrible terrible gnawing at his stomach, "People close to me still die, that's how it works. They remembered what happened and they ran. They ran and they got killed for it." He laughs and it's hysterical bordering on a panic attack, "I mean, look at you - you guys remember way more than Dumbledore does. Tom knew magic was a thing the moment he hit eleven. At least I didn't care about him, but you... you guys... I'm not good for anything other than dragging everyone else down with me."

“Is that why you’re hanging out with Voldemort?” Ron’s face lights with understanding, “You’re trying to punish yourself for something you couldn’t even control?”

“I’m not here to talk about Tom,” he says, uselessly, “He’s not… this is about me. About this _universe_ , about the Order being in London and the DMA - you’ll get in the way, we have a plan--”

"But that’s the real problem, isn’t it?” Ron interrupts, seeing how Harry’s sentence probably finishes and answering before the words can breathe air, “You’ve been playing at being a _criminal_ with Lord fucking _Voldemort_ ,” Ron’s anger is enough to overpower the stigma of the name, sneer spat out between them. His tone softens slightly, but there’s still that hard cold edge of a knife in his question, "Why the fuck are you making nice with Voldemort?"

“I said I didn’t want to talk about Tom, he’s not something that’s easy to explain,” he snaps back, defensively. He knows he can’t even _begin_ to broach that topic. How can he? He had been nothing. He’d had scattered memories, a penchant for survival and twisting words, no identity documents, no money, _nothing_. No friends, no family, no job. Umbridge could have locked him in a dungeon and thrown away the key and he’d have been lost. Bellatrix could have murdered him and left him in a ditch and nobody would have even noticed he was missing.

He’d had nobody other than Tom.

And now they stand there and _judge_ him.

Tom is both everything Voldemort was and nothing that Voldemort was. There is murder on his knuckles and poison in his blood. He is destruction wrought human and vice given gravity. He is _potential_ , and charming and smart and it’s easy to see why so many respected him.

“It’s _Riddle_ , Harry,” Ron says, like that should make everything clearer.

"He's not Voldemort!" he shakes his head, because he can see already they’re not going to give up on this. He pushes his still full coffee away from him and it slops onto the table as he makes to stands, "Okay, yes,” he’ll give them this much, “He’s a horrible person. But I know him; better than he probably knows himself. Do you really think I’d play house with that psychopathic monster who murdered so many? He’s a teenager, all mid-puberty and angst and--”

“Harry, Tom Riddle’s teen angst bullshit has a body count.”

“So does mine,” he snaps, and the words turn to ash the moment he says them, but they’re there, they fall like snow cold and ice encrusted. He steps towards the door because this has already gone further than he’d have liked. Tom was right this was a _stupid, emotional_ decision--

Ron just looks disappointed and somehow that’s _worse_ , “Harry, you’re running a criminal enterprise with the guy who nearly manipulated my sister into suicide."

That _hurts_ . He reels backwards with hurt. He hasn’t thought of Ginny for so long. Wonders where she is, if she’s okay, if she’d look at him with equal disappointment for his choices in conspiring with his murderer. He shakes his head, spinning away, _running_ , like a coward.

He’s no Gryffindor in this life, that much is for sure. Survival is the name of the game.

“Harry--”

“This was a bad idea,” he says, half-twisting, “Look, I’ve given you my information. I’ll get another message to you-- this was stupid, you have no idea, none at all--"

"He's a psychopath--"

"Shut up," he snaps and Ron listens, eyes widening as Harry whirls on them, "He was there. He was there when none of you were! He saved my life, and like it or not I owe him."

"Harry--” Hermione whispers, a gasp echoing her words, “Your mutation--"

"What?" he catches sight of Ron, trying to mouth words, nothing coming out and realises what he did. He flinches away, feeling nausea churn at his gut because _how could he have been so careless_ , he should have _known better_.

Words can kill. Especially Harry’s.

He should have fucking known better. This was dangerous and stupid and--

A flare of panic sparks within him, not his own. It’s unfamiliar and sparked with warning. “Who did you tell?” he turns back to them, “I told you to come alone… you said you came alone--”

Hermione looks wide-eyed, deer in the headlights, “We didn’t! What’s wrong, why--?” she stops, eyes settling on something behind Harry, “What did he _say_ , we didn’t--”

“You told _someone_ ,” he snarls, “The Order are here--”

“What? How do you know that? They’re not--”

“They are,” Tom’s there suddenly, next to Harry and gaze scanning around, “Black’s here with Dumbledore, I picked them up along the street, Black’s like a soppy _puppy_ \--”

Ron and Hermione’s reactions are instantaneous, Ron looking alarmed and not sure what he’s meant to do with Tom _right there_ . He reaches for a wand that isn’t there while Hermione jumps back in surprise. “Riddle’s here,” Ron mumbles, “You told _Riddle, what was he_ **_doing_ ** **,** stalking our conversation--?”

“I was keeping a lookout, you think I’d let him meet Order members without backup? And evidently it was needed since you obvious told someone--”

“No!” Hermione shakes her head, bushy hair spinning wildly, “Harry, you have to believe us, we didn’t tell anyone, we--” she looks to Ron for reassurance but the redhead has his hands pressing against his closed eyelids.

He drops his hand, “The note,” he groans, “I left Harry’s note in our room… Sirius must have found it… _shit_ \--”

“Clearly someone found it,” Tom sneers, unimpressed, “Given the presence of an overeager godfather and fucking _righteous_ old man who is convinced he’s right on the warpath, it’s making me _sick_ , ugh,” Tom pulls a face. “Harry, are we done here--?”

“You can’t go with him!”

Harry feels like he’s drowning. This should have been simple, _why couldn’t his life just be_ **_simple_ ** **,** “No,” he shakes his head, and for a moment Hermione and Ron look relieved, before he finishes speaking, “No, I’m done, I can’t do this now--”

Tom’s smile is smug, yes, especially when Hermione’s spluttering protests drown like a fish on dry land, but there’s something hopeful in his expression that Harry doesn’t think Tom himself is aware of. Under all that triumph, that confident arrogance of someone who’s won this little tug-of-war over Harry there’s a stark vulnerability and Harry thinks he’s the only one that sees it, the tiny note of _relief_ that Harry’s still with him.

It’s confusing, it’s conflicting, _it’s the wrong damn time for this_ \---

“You can’t just let Riddle force you--”

“He’s not,” Harry snaps, “I’m not some helpless damsel in distress, Hermione. Tom’s not manipulating me. He can’t, I’m the one with the Imperius Curse, remember? But I won’t do this now. I can’t… I want to see Sirius but not now. Not like this… Not with Dumbledore--”

“They’re nearly here,” Tom steps to the entract, gaze scanning the crowds even as he tracks the emotions moving towards them, “I’d say lovely to meet you, Granger, Weasley, but that would be a lie--”

“Harry, please--”

“I’m sorry, I’ll contact you--”

“HARRY!”

He’s outside and following Tom in a moment, Hermione and Ron left floundering in the doorway. Ron’s gaze tracks him for a moment, futures probably spinning in his head before Harry loses sight of him, trying to duck away from where he can see the beard bobbing along the pavement. His breath catches and bitter resentment wells up and he’d always been better at using his powers when he was angry, so the _freeze_ that he manages to wrap around Dumbledore’s thoughts shouldn’t make him feel sick but it does.

“This way. Thank Merlin you let me convince you to meet your pals where there was somewhere with a quick escape--”

“Harry!”

The call rings out down the street. Harry shouldn’t turn, but he does, sees Sirius’ form, wavy hair, grey eyes and for a moment he wants nothing more than to run over to his godfather and embrace him in a hug--

He feels seconds away from an actual panic attack. He’s not sure if it’s Tom, bristling next to him with anticipation or adrenaline, or the eternal weariness that wells up inside him because _he’s so tired_ \--

But he has a plan. He’s seen what this world brings and the Order is not the way to go about this. He meets Sirius’ pale gaze and steps away, seeing the hurt and odd resignation in his godfather’s gaze. Sirius’ head jerks and at that moment there is a yelp from nearby. A woman trips over a cat that throws itself out of the nearby doorway. Her form shimmers, like an illusion dropping and Harry sees bubblegum pink hair before he’s grabbing Tom and throwing himself down the nearest alleyway.

He hears the curse of Tonks trying to right herself, Sirius’ barking question and feels the moment his coercion over Dumbledore slips but by then it doesn’t matter. London is Tom and Harry’s playground, with all it’s shortcuts and hidey-holes and twisted backwater paths. It’s an old city turned new far too fast leaving it ugly yet beautiful, crowded yet oddly empty. The Order could try to catch up but they don’t really stand a chance.

“I _told_ you meeting them was a bad idea,” Tom says, as they clamber up a metal fire escape that leads to the back of their apartment, “But did you listen - do you _ever_ listen--”

“Ron and Hermione weren’t the problem. And look, Dumbledore’s going to be chasing you regardless, so really whose fault is this, here?”

Tom curls his lip and doesn’t answer, fishing out the key they have stashed in the crack where the mortar between two bricks has crumbled away and jabbing it into the lock with more force than necessary.

“It was lucky we didn’t walk straight into Tonks. You didn’t notice her?”

“Lucky for us. _Unlucky_ for her,” Tom sounds considering, “No, I don’t see her. She shifts like Barty but she must have something else. It keeps her under my radar - she just doesn’t crop up.”

“Inconspicuous,” Harry hums, “She passed disguise and concealment with full marks. Sirius must have done something--”

The locks gives and the door creaks open, safety illuminated by the soft grey light of the city. “I can’t believe we pulled one over on Dumbledore again,” Tom’s grinning wildly, _triumphantly_ and still with that damn smug look like he’s pulled a fast one over on the Order and stolen Harry out from under their noses, “Did you see his _face_?”

“Was too busy trying to hold a coercion over him,” Harry admits, adrenaline still pumping through his veins, heart _racing_ . He laughs, a little wild from the sheer _idea_ that he could hold Dumbledore still for even a few moments. The absurdity of the situation is not lost on him.

Harry just helped Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort reborn, escape from justice. He’s fully aware of all the irony of that. And yet he doesn’t care, can’t bring himself to find the emotion to care. He briefly contemplates the idea that Tom is manipulating him but--

Tom is staring at him, eyes dark. Maybe it's the adrenaline pumping through his veins like liquid fire. Maybe it's the way his heart is racing, the way their laughter rings through the air and his power curls comfortably at the base of his spine, warm and content and his.

Harry isn't sure what it is that contributes to it, but one minute he's meeting Tom's grin - not a smile, never a smile, Riddle doesn't smile, no it's a grin of triumph and power and satisfaction like the cat that caught the mouse and found the cream too. One minute Tom's grinning, wildly, exhilarated, then next Tom's right there, breath warm against Harry's skin and their lips are crashing together. It's messy. Clumsy. Tom's eager and inexperienced and Harry hasn't kissed anyone since Ginny in another life. Teeth click together, noses bump and laughter is still caught in Harry's throat, because who would have ever thought Lord Voldemort was bad at kissing--

He tears away, rolling happiness curdling and draining from him. "What the hell?" he asks, staring with wide eyes at his fate assigned murderer.

"You were magnificent," Tom says, like that explains it. “I can’t believe you did that for me.”

It doesn't.

"What are you doing?" he tries to push Tom away, but the older boy is larger, stronger--

"I'd have thought that was obvious," Tom sounds almost disappointed, gaze searing as it rakes up and down Harry's form.

“Uh, no, it-it really isn’t--”

“Harry, we’re literally soulmates--”

“That’s not how it _works--”_

“Isn’t it?” Tom tilts his head to one side, “Tell me you _don’t_ feel it, tell me you _don’t_ want this, because I can tell when you’re lying and feel what you’re feeling and you _crave_ it.”

 

Harry’s breaths come in short sharp pants. His fingers are splayed put against Tom’s skin, pulse fluttering like a trapped butterfly beating its wings. It would be so _easy_ \--

He pulls away, “It’s a side-effect,” he says, voice too-hoarse, “From the horcrux, and because you’ve been using me as a damn emotional _crutch--”_

Tom doesn’t push. That almost makes it _worse_. “Of course,” he says, tone too polite, pupils still blown, “My apologies--”

Harry almost sways closer, fingers curling into his own skin and nails digging in, he wants to spit out another excuse but they’re all dry on his tongue. The adrenaline is still making his heart race. That’s the only reason, he tells himself.

“We need to get Dumbledore and the Order out of London,” Tom says, eyes still bright but acting as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just tried to--

“What?” Harry blinks, unable to follow Tom's train of thoughts, mind still lingering.

“We’ve done this your way,” Tom’s smile is not-nice, “Now it’s time to do it my way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Harry thinks it’s unacceptable that Tom Riddle used to be hot, it’s slightly distracting.]


	9. business to settle

“Renown Oxford scholar publishes controversial paper regarding mutants-- no, here it is. Mutant Activist opens school-- oh, they’ve definitely got someone on the inside keeping its location under wraps but this should be enough,” Harry triumphant waves around the newspaper clippings he’s amassed. Tom’s perched on the arm of the sofa, examining Harry with dark eyes.

He can feel the weight of Tom’s gaze, like hands curling around his spine.

“They’re not even trying to be original,” Harry says, searching for something to say, “But at least he didn’t call the school ‘Hogwarts’ I don’t think I could have coped with  _ that _ \--”

On the newspaper a younger Dumbledore stares out with a soft smile, beard short and neatly trimmed. The photo is still, unmoving.

Tom is still not saying anything. Harry’s anticipation twists to sour wine, and he knows Tom can feel it. Ethanol burns easily though, and he glares challengingly at Tom.

“Don’t look like that,” he chides, “This was your idea - I’m just here to keep an eye on you and make sure you don’t murder Dumbledore.”

“Me? Murder that old man? There’s hardly a point, is there, he should drop dead in the next decade.”

“Unless his mutation really is longevity in which case you’re out of luck.”

Tom’s lip quirks, worryingly, like he’s actually considering the logistics of murdering Albus Dumbledore. Given Grindelwald’s own age Harry is pretty sure they either ran into someone with the ability to improve lifespans or their mutations interlink somehow. He doesn’t care, he refuses to care about Albus Dumbledore and his miasma of problems that Harry hadn’t even begun to be aware of, let alone entitled to know even when they apparently concerned him. “I will,” Tom says, and Harry tilts his head, questioningly, “If you want me to, we can get rid of him, it would be so  _ easy _ \--”

Silken words, like he’s not suggesting  _ murder _ . Sweet and poisoned like a soft yellow laburnum branch and yet they come from a place of almost good intentions.

The closest Tom gets to good, anyway.

“He’s not worth the effort,” Harry says, because that’s true, and also he wants answers, years in the making. He’s long past anger and resignation, just some sort of tired curiosity that exists more for curiosity's’ sake rather than any real importance.

After all, that world doesn’t exist anymore. Harry made sure of that.

“Are we going to talk?” he asks instead, looking up at the boy-teenager-man he’s fate entangled with in any world, “About…” he doesn’t quite know how to voice it, and he almost wishes he’d never said anything when Tom gets a predatory look in his eyes and steps forwards. Harry refuses to look away first, meeting brown eyes.

“Is there something to talk about?” Tom asks, and  _ yes _ , Harry wants to say, wants to put it into words because that’s what you’re meant to do, that’s what he had done with Ginny but--

But this had been a while coming, a part of him realises, and  _ this is Voldemort _ a part of him screams but  _ it’s not  _ **_all_ ** Voldemort and somehow that’s an important definition in his head because the handsome teenager standing before him might reek of sociopathy but there’s ambition and drive there too that right now slots so well with Harry’s own plans.

Ugh, Harry has got to stop thinking of him as handsome, it’s really not helping matters.

Tom is dissonance at it's finest and it confuses Harry, the boy - young man - he has come to know with quick thoughts and sociopathy like a second nature compared to the insanity that was Voldemort. They are still the same and he still remembers the boy and the basilisk.

Maybe Harry is just badly calibrated in this world. This shouldn’t be so appealing. Tom is as callous, superficial and cold as a dusting of snow on the hard frosted ground.

Maybe Tom’s right, maybe he is masochistic, or maybe he just misses the danger that dogged his footsteps and the soul that wrapped around his own.

He tries not to think about the implications of that.

“You’re feeling too much,” Tom says with a tilt of his head, and Harry wonders at what point he had allowed the other boy’s voice to become so familiar.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Harry retorts, “Look at you worrying about Albus  _ freaking _ Dumbledore, like he’s a problem. Do you really want to do this?” he waves around the newspaper article, years out of date but hopefully enough for a trace on a location. Hopefully enough to give them their way into the Order’s base of operation.

“There are just a lot of risks involved,” Tom points out, mildly, “If it gets them off our backs it’s worth it. But if something goes wrong, if we make a mistake…”

“You won’t,” Harry says, staring at the sleep-deprived teenager in front of him, “You’re literally perfect, nothing is going to go wrong.”

Tom spins around, fatigue lining his every move. An exhaustion that comes from living in the shadows like a vice, clamping down and chaining him. “Why?” he snaps, “Why are you  _ so damn optimistic _ ? Is it a Gryffindor thing or is it just you?”

Harry forgets, more often than he should that Tom can read his emotions. He leans against the door frame, trying to find the words to explain something he  _ knows _ Voldemort never understood, “Hope is what gives us reason, Tom. Hope makes us live.”

He looks unimpressed, this boy who society abandoned and so decided to burn down society, “Hope,” he sneers, “Is simply what dies last.” Scorn and bitterness.

“Sure,” Harry agrees, “Then my hopes you can be redeemed will die when I do. Come on, let’s go to  _ bed _ , Tom.”

Tom tilts his head, lips quirking in a smile, “Was that a offer?” he leers.

Harry’s torn between blushing and shoving Tom violently in the chest. He manages to just kind of flail awkwardly instead, “Shut up,” he splutters, “Don’t make me compel you.”

A hand closes on his wrist and Tom is right there suddenly, looming over Harry. Harry’s just started to hit his growth spurt but Tom is still somehow tall, no matter how much he grows. “Don’t you dare,” he says, but there’s no fire in his voice, “We have business to settle with Albus Dumbledore, you and I both. But I’ll play nice. For you.” Tom’s staring at him, head tilted to one side and staring at Harry with an odd expression on his face. This is the murderer of Harry’s parents, and yet there is nothing of that man in the look on his face. Voldemort is dead, given soul, and Tom is here and the past is gone.

“I’m not asking you to play nice,” Harry shrugs, carelessly, “Just don’t kill anyone.”

“We are slaves to the gods,” Tom murmurs, “Whatever gods are. I make no promises.”

It’s the closest Harry will get to assent.

“We’re the gods here,” he reminds Tom, quietly, “We make our own fate,” and Tom’s grin is damning in it’s agreement.

*

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

Harry’s giddiness twists into rot waiting to happen as the nerves sink in. A quaint feeling of  _ lost _ overwhelms him - it’s almost unusual, Harry is one to dive straight first into everything and yet somehow this makes him stop and question his every move. Tom doesn’t like it and the sooner they can get this over with the better.

Harry is  _ his _ .

Tom has established his empire and sure, it could use some work and expansion but the foundations are  _ there  _ and sure he didn’t anticipate Harry playing such an important role--

He hadn’t anticipated  _ Harry _ . That was, in retrospect, the problem. Nobody can quite predict Harry, and certainly not Tom when faced with the pure emotional drive that is part of his soul.

Because that’s it, surely, this connection he feels with the boy. Harry can deny it but the soul left scars on both of them.

“You sure about this?” Harry wavers, and the boy has avoided literally all of the reminders of his past life, too used to running, too used to never looking over his shoulder. Even Tom is a facsimile of his past self, different enough that Harry takes it and keeps moving. The link between them some undescribed thrumming thing that is just under the surface, present but impossible to put words to.

“We’ve done this your way,” he points out, “Time to do it my way.”

Their past like chains shackling them, dragging Harry away from him. Tom intends to break them once and for all because the mere idea of Harry leaving…

It’s unacceptable.

Besides, Harry has made his choice and his point is valid. Tom would probably last a week before bodies started dropping and it would be such a shame for Tom Riddle to end up in mutant prison somewhere.

They utilise the tracking abilities of the younger Lestrange brother, still alive and made blissfully ignorant of what happened to his brother and sister-in-law. Although not to the same skill of Rodolphus at tracking specific people, he can find objects and scry visuals, and it’s enough to get Harry and Tom a location. Much like Greyback he follows Tom less because of fear of who Voldemort used to be and more respect for who Tom is now.

His and Harry’s reputation precedes him.

Dumbledore’s precious school is a distorted mirror of what Hogwarts had once been. It’s been purposefully built  _ not _ to resemble the school, but somehow manages to anyway. It’s located in the Peak District, four hours north of London and not as much hidden as just reclusive amongst the rolling hills and soft valleys. Nobody bothers the rich wealthy man’s estate house turned private school, and nobody has quite made the link to who owns the property yet and his abilities.

“Their security sucks,” Harry says, with the air of one who had to learn very quickly how to rig and disable security cameras, alarm codes and various other technical hazards. In comparison to the various facilities and banks they’ve ventured through in the past two years, they practically walk in.

It’s all too easy.

The last thing Albus Dumbledore expects that morning when he enters his office is Tom Riddle to be lounging in the chair.

To the old man’s credit he doesn’t react dramatically, just arches an eyebrow, gaze skimming across the room as if to ascertain how Tom got in and if he was alone. The room just as cluttered with trinkets and curios as his old one was, outrageous purples and reds decorating the curtains that trail across the windows. “Tom,” Dumbledore says, slowly, and looks like he’s about to say something else but can’t quite help the, “How did you get in here?” that slips out.

“Please,  _ Professor _ , breaking into places is currently my job description,” Tom’s smile is not pleasant, “Take a seat,” he gestures, and given he’s stolen Dumbledore’s own seat, desk drawers clearly open and rifled through, Dumbledore is forced into the seat usually reserved for his students. “And don’t think about trying to contact anyone,” Tom adds, head tilting to one side feeling the old man’s adrenaline spike, “Mentally or whatever other little trick you were contemplating.”

“Telepathy, then?” Albus sighs, relaxing into his chair and reaching for a jar on his own desk. Tom doesn’t react as he unscrews the lid and offers it to him, “Lemon drop?”

“Eternal youth?” Tom fires back, ignoring the sweet, “You look amazing for over a hundred.”

“The follies of youth,” Albus helps himself to his own sweet, popping it in his mouth and sinking back into his chair with the air of one who is in complete control despite the situation saying otherwise, “Everything over fifty is considered old. No, I’m afraid my mutation is far milder than that,” he hesitates half a second before offering up the information freely, “I see memories. I can even control them to some extent and rewrite them, although I am loathe to do that.”

“A human pensieve,” Tom drawls, “How useful.”

“Quite,” Albus’ smile is thin, “But far more dangerous than you might think.”

“Obliviating someone of their memories is as bad any one of the unforgivables,” Tom says, and even as he says it he knows that while it’s true - tampering with memories can be wrong and  _ intrusive _ and can twist who a person is - yet it can also heal.

It had healed him, hadn’t it, erased the years of madness, he has nightmares about lacking a body, about being a wraith, an impression of a soul-torn spirit pressed against the fabric of the world and wakes in a cold sweat, thankful he knows nothing but flashes of his own foolishness scarring punishment onto his psyche.

Immune to Tom’s contemplation Dumbledore tries to look like he’s not unnerved by Tom’s visit. His tone is polite and a stage too calm. “To what do I owe this pleasure, Tom, of you hunting down my school and me for this conversation?” Try as he might to hide it his blue gaze flickers, curiosity spikes.

“Harry’s not here,” Tom lies, although it’s technically truth, Harry is not in the room, “He doesn’t want to speak to you, why do you think he met Granger and Weasley alone? You and the mutt unfortunately interrupted before he had a chance to pass on our message so here I am. Establishing boundaries. London’s ours. Keep the Order  _ out _ .”

Dumbledore barely reacts to the threat, “Is Harry okay?” he asks instead, “What did you do to him?”

Tom laughs. It’s an ugly thing. “What did  _ I _ do to  _ him _ ? You mean ‘what did  _ he _ do to  _ me _ ’?” Dumbledore’s face flickers in confusion and then clears in a moment, “He’s so goddamn  _ good _ ,” Tom sneers, “Even with everything that happened to him, even with his occasional bouts of anger, and you know why he avoided you? Because he  _ felt guilty _ over what happened at the battle.”

“Guilty?”

“Of course,” Tom plucks up a pen from the desk, begins spinning it between his long fingers, “You weren’t there. Apparently you think Hogwarts gave everyone another chance or some bullshit. You’d been so busy playing god, trying make sure that the Elder Wand stayed out of my hands that you never contemplated the fact that it would end up in his.”

He enjoys the flurry of emotions that spin through the old man. They’re muted, blocked by an occlumency shield that doesn’t exist, but it bleeds through anyway. The shock, the dawning realisation and the facts that he juggles in his head.

“Don’t you see what playing god gets you?” Tom lets the words hang themselves in the air, “Don’t you think it’s time you stepped back and let us play out our own fates, prophecy free?”

His words manage to right something in Dumbledore, “You don’t know the prophecy,” he says, confident in the belief that he is intrinsically  _ right _ . “You don’t know  _ Harry _ , he’s good, better than us both--”

“He was,” Tom corrects, “But he’s already died for you once and I won’t let him do it again. He won’t throw himself off that cliff, not this time. He's not  _ yours _ , he's mine. Do you understand? He's mine, I found him, I saved him, I taught him. I was there for him when nobody else was. He's of my soul and nothing you or any of your precious Phoenix allies do can change that--"

Dumbledore flinches at that proclamation and Tom enjoys the horror and revulsion that bleeds through. “No,” he whispers, “You locked up your horcruxes in a possessive, greedy rage but you treat Harry like…” he breaks off, and the whole train of conversation makes Tom uncomfortable. Harry is  _ useful _ . He makes no pretenses at that, and having Harry as an  _ enemy _ with the power to  _ control people _ was a foolish move. Of course he’d treat the boy well, watch him grow into himself, play  _ nice _ , play the  _ good guy on a crusade _ , it matched Harry’s ideals and it matched Tom’s plan and---

“Do you…” Dumbledore pauses, as if uncertain, “Do you  _ care _ for him?”

“Of course I care for him,” Tom smirks, leaning back in the chair, “He’s my soul.”

Dumbledore doesn’t react, face still and looking at Tom sitting in his office chair like he’s seeing him for the first time. “You don’t love him,” he says, eventually, “You’ll break him.”

Tom wants to laugh. His lip curls up, slightly bitter. Truth bared real. Of course Tom doesn’t love him. This isn't about love as in caring, this is about property as in ownership. That’s how these things  _ work _ , emotions are a  _ shackle _ , a  _ chain _ \--

And even separated by wide corridors and many floors, Tom is aware of Harry’s emotions in a steady, constant buzz--

They don’t feel like a chain. They feel like the closest thing Tom has felt to hope.

*

Harry doesn’t exactly try to be stealthy once he’s in and split from Tom. He stalks the hallways with mixed curiosity and distinct lack of fear. This is, after all, just a school, not a government facility.

The two students who are awake this early and pass him in the corridor barely glance at him. He’s just another teenager, the school is large, it makes sense they haven’t seen him before. There’s a chance they might recognise him from a previous life but his hair is shorter, less messy and more spikes and he’s managed to locate contact lenses, as irritating as he finds them. There’s no scar on his forehead to mark him out, not in this world.

The school is nice. A proper old English house with fancy fittings and old wood floors. The doorwards are stone, window ledges warped wood and glass a layer too thin for the hills it sits in. There are various shiny trinkets on the odd bookshelf but he doesn’t have Tom’s compulsion to steal every shiny thing that is thrown in his path. He keeps wandering, because he knows eventually--

“You’re giving me a headache,” Ron says, still wearing pajamas with one of his mum’s wool jumpers as he appears in the doorway to the library-like room Harry is still trying to work out if it’s a drawing room or common room. “Wondering what you’re doing and then I start getting flashes of you wandering around in here  _ like an idiot _ \--”

“You say that like I’m wanted and on the run,” Harry quirks a lip.

“Uh, from what I hear,” a warm female voice adds, peeking out from behind her brother, “You kind of are.”

Ron lounges in the doorway, arms crossed and leaning against the stone arch. Hermione lingers besides him but Ginny strolls straight forwards, a fiery whirlwind. “Hey guys,” Harry says, almost sheepishly, “Lovely place you’ve got here--”

Hermione shakes her head, almost exasperatedly. “What, exactly, are you doing? How did you even get in, there are cameras and...and…”

“Breaking in,” Harry answers cheekily, “Hermione, I’ve been breaking into places with security that is a lot higher than this for  _ years _ now.”

“You can’t just  _ break into places _ !”

“Oh, but Harry here thinks he can do anything he wants, isn’t that right?” Ginny’s tone is not quite icy. It’s too fond for that, but there is definitely a note of distinct amusement, “The big brave chosen one, found at last in the heart of the DMA with Lord Voldemort of all people.”

“No chance you could just be a dear, Gin, and  _ calm down _ .” His smile is charming, stolen straight from Tom and it flickers and fades when Ginny doesn’t move.

She crosses her arms, arches an eyebrow, and she’s only fifteen but there are already stubborn, determined fiery hints of the woman she will be. “Nice try,” she says, “Mental powers don’t work on me.”

“At all?”

“I got manipulated once, Harry, it’s not happening again.”

Harry’s eyes widen and the flinch is subtle but it’s there. “I’m sick of justifying myself,” he says, voice bitter, and his gaze flickers with warning to where Hermione ducks her head away sheepishly, “I’ve already heard it.”

Ginny shrugs, “Fine,” her voice is curt, “Sleep well with your bad decisions. What’s the occasion for the visit? After all this time and  _ now _ you try to track us down?”

“Well, by now Tom’s made it to Dumbledore’s office,” Harry shrugs, “And they’ve had a conversation where hopefully nobody got hurt and everyone’s feelings are still intact--” Ginny’s face is already falling, expression burning and Harry honestly should have seen the slap coming.

“Ginny!” Ron lurches forwards in alarm.

“I probably deserved that,” Harry says, pressing one hand to his smarting cheek.

“Oh, you definitely do,” Ginny says, but any fight that had been sparking there drains out and she drops one one of the lounges, “But it is good to see you again.”

“You lot are ridiculous,” Hermione sniffs, “And Harry you need to stop annoying everyone, eventually you’re going to bump into someone who doesn’t have control of their mutation and is going to turn you into ash.”

Harry’s smile is so wide it makes his cheeks hurt, “You haven’t changed, Hermione,” he says.

“You have,” she says, quietly.

His smile flickers.

“But I don’t think that’s a bad thing,” she adds, tilting her head to one side, a slow realisation seeming to dawn there, “I can’t say I approve of everything but--” she trails off, shaking curls out of her eyes, “How did you find this school anyway? I mean, it’s not  _ hidden _ , but it’s not public knowledge.”

Harry shrugs, knowing he’s irritating her by not giving a clear answer, “I know someone,” he says, tone blase, “It seems like a nice place though, fancy - someone’s clearly got the money to spend.”

“You’ll never believe it,” Ron says, the voice of one who is still horrified by this fact, “But Malfoy’s are loaded in this world as well. And I don’t know what they remember of the Battle of Hogwarts, but they were shovelling money in the way of mutant protections the moment they heard about this school.”

Ginny chews on a piece of her hair, and doesn’t appear to realise she’s doing it, “It is nice,” she says, “Bill, Charlie and Percy all went to public school, it was a nightmare hiding their mutations - but by the time Fred and George came around to schooling Ron had already started insisting magic had been a thing. Managed to make contact with Dumbledore--”

“He had no idea,” Ron says, slowly, “About any of it-- don’t look like that, Harry, it wasn’t your fault--” 

It really sort of was, Harry wants to argue, that was how it  _ worked _ , he was the key to  _ all _ of this, but he keeps quiet, lets Ron talk.

“The twins, Ginny and I were allowed to board and study here. Nobody remembered, but here I found Hermione,” Ron steps forwards, wraps a hand around Hermione’s shoulders and she leans into it, expression soft. Harry’s gaze flickers, and he’s missed something here but at the same time there’s not exactly anything to miss, this had been a good few years in the making last time, he has no doubt it was the same here.

“My parents had a nightmare with me. Fire-starting doesn’t lend itself to subtlety. Thankfully Dumbledore had started a recruitment drive for mutants who stood out, McGonagall tracked me down. Ron turned up a year later. And then Dumbledore sat us down and asked us what we remembered.”

“Bits and pieces,” Ginny shrugs, “A mix between everyone watching a movie at the same time and wanting to talk about it to compare notes and this odd feeling that you’ve already seen it and just going about your day to day. It was fine but then you’d reference something. One person would look confused while someone else would just respond normally. Some of the students here were Hogwarts students during the battle. A good chunk of them...just don’t care. They did the pre-mandated session with Dumbledore or McGonagall to talk about it and moved past it - they don’t remember enough to be impacted by it. And then the rest of us just… accept it. The other mutants here think we’re weird, and we are, I guess--”

“Neverwere,” Hermione says, “Because that reality… never was.”

Harry swallows. His throat is dry and he’d thought about the other people this curse must affect, had never really imagined the full extent of the  _ impact _ \-- “I’m glad it’s okay here,” he says, “Even if Malfoy is here.” he adds to Ron who looks very put-out by that fact.

“What about you?” Ginny asks the question Harry can see she’s been dying to ask for a while now, “Where were you? What happened...what were you doing--?”

“That,” inputs a new voice, low-pitched, the tang of an off-potion to it and the roughness of black pewter as Severus Snape steps into the room, still as ominous as he had managed in his last life, “That is a very good question and you are not the only one who wants an answer to that question.”

“Oh good,” Harry says, dryly, “You’re just as pleasant as I remember.”

He’s spent to long around Tom, tongue too-sharp. Ron tries and fails to hide a smirk, Ginny flat out laughs and Hermione looks aghast.

Snape looks distinctly unimpressed. “Mr Potter,” his black eyes are bottomless pits and his lips curl downwards. Even after all these years he still manages to butcher Harry’s name into a mouthful of distasteful vulgarity. “Use that Unforgivable you cause a mutation and you’ll find yourself blind and deaf in less time that you could say  _ Gryffindor _ .”

Harry holds up his hands in mock surrender, “I’m not fighting,” he says “No need to play the bully, Snape.” No formality, no  _ Professor _ , this man doesn’t deserve it. No matter what he does, no matter what decisions he made or how much he sacrificed, it doesn’t excuse his behaviour. And while Harry respects the man, he is only a man.

“I thought better of you, Granger, Weasley. Letting this thief into the school--” Snape’s unpleasant drawls have no changed one bit.

“We didn’t!” Hermione protests.

“I mean, it’s not like we told anyone about him being here,” Ginny points out, unhelpfully.

“And I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again, your security  _ sucks _ \--”

“ _ Enough _ ,” the man snaps, “You’ve been playing the attention-seeking liar once more, wasting all our times. Come with me, no powers, Dumbledore wants to talk to you.”

Harry snorts, “He isn’t leaving you to play messenger again with all his dark and dire news?” he’s baiting Snape, pushing at open wounds and raw nerve strings just to watch the man flinch. He moves past it, this is pitiful and petty of him and that’s not why he’s here. He glances at his watch, “Sure,” he says, “Let’s go, probably best to check he and Tom haven’t murdered each other yet.”

Snape’s pace increases half a step.

*

If walls could talk, they’d have interesting things to say about the tension that sits in the room between Tom and Albus Dumbledore. It’s like a storm waiting to arrive, like Dumbledore’s expecting an execution. Like he’s waiting for the moment that Tom strikes out with violence.

It’s almost worse when he doesn’t, keeps lounging in Dumbledore’s chair, enjoying the emotions swirling around him like a fine wine, “He beat me, you know,” Tom remarks, calmly, “Harry. He beat me, but in doing so claimed the last Hallow. And boom,” he mimes an explosion, fingers exploding outwards, “New world. He blames himself but this is on you as much as him, you and your orchestrations.”

“So what?” Dumbledore asks, “Instead you’ll trick him into allying with you? Make him think you want the same thing, that you want to help mutants, use him and then stab him in the back?”

He’s saying these words like a taunt, but they’re oddly empty of emotion. He’s fishing, testing the waters, he doesn’t really believe what he’s saying but the vowels and consonants have their intended effort as Tom slides to his feet. Like a cat uncoiling, he stalks around the desk to where Dumbledore sits, fingers tap-tap-tapping on the heavy mahogany wood, “Why bother tricking him,” Tom muses, “When I can just align our interests? It’s not like he needed much pushing--”

“He’ll realise you’re using him, and whether you’re immune to his powers or not, I doubt you’ll win against him a second time--”

_ “Win _ \-- I’m not… this isn’t a fight, Albus. I’m not going to try to kill him, not now, I know what he is now…”

Tom’s using Harry, of course he’s using the boy, he’s a filter to the emotions of the world around him and a well of power that Tom would be stupid not to utilise. The only thing is Harry’s been using him too, even if Harry would never admit to the stability and support Tom has brought him, a familiar beacon in the dark.

“Your horcruxes don’t exist in this world, Tom.”

Tom takes a slow step forwards towards Dumbledore, “They don’t need to,” he hums, brown eyes flickering over the old man, “Immunity,” he ponders, “Is that what you think I have? Immunity to Harry’s coercion?” He enjoys the widening of blue eyes, the surprise--

“You wouldn’t stay with him if you didn’t have some way of ensuring your own power,” Albus reasons, but appears to realise he’s wrong even as he says it, “Something else then? Some other mental ability?”

Tom laughs, leaning back on the desk, “Of sorts,” he says, “I mean - you assumed I was the manipulator, and you’d probably be right, so what would you have guessed Harry would have? Three guesses, but I’ll give you a hint. It’s your favourite reason, old man, your best excuse--”

Tired eyes flicker closed in dawning realisation, “Empathy,” he says, “You’re an empath…” eyes blink open, “Because Harry was meant to be an empath? Or on your own merit?”

A shrug. “Does it matter? Maybe it’s just ironic, one giant cosmic joke. Me, the sociopath who likes to manipulate people, able to feel and control emotions while Harry, the kind-hearted morally rigid stubbornest person I know gets to control people's will tighter than an imperius curse ever could." His lip quirks up in a smile, “But I will admit something, Dumbledore. You were right. Emotions… well… they do have a certain power, don’t they?”

A single, salt-laden tear wells in Dumbledore’s eye. It rolls down his cheek and he lets out a gasp, a sob strangling itself in his throat as he blinks back watering eyes. 

"People underestimate empathy.” Tom watches with a detached curiosity, playing the man’s emotions like a tuned instrument, and it’s so easy to just twist the violin pegs out of tune, “I underestimated Harry's empathy lifetimes ago, Lily Potter's empathy nearly killed me, her son's did. Now mine? Mine can bring forth the worst nightmares to cripple men. Your deepest regrets - because try what you might, Arianna still died, didn't she? And all that guilt, that sadness... it drives some men to suicide.”

He twists the string of emotion, builds it to a crescendo, watches as Dumbledore lets out a shudder of horror, of guilt, of so much  _ pain _ \--

Then he drops it, lets it go and sees the headmaster relax. “I was wrong, emotion isn’t a weakness. It’s a weapon.”

“That’s  _ hideous _ ,” Dumbledore chokes out, shaken. Tom doesn’t care. 

“You see?” Tom asks, enjoying the way Dumbledore’s emotions  _ flinch _ away from him, “I always win. Stay out of London,” his tone leaves no room for arguments, “Keep your Order members away. If the Order appear, Sentinel get involved. If they get involved they change their patterns. If they change their patterns then we’ve wasted a lot of time for nothing. Keep out of it, or this? This will be  _ nothing _ , compared to the pain I can bring you.”

“It won’t win you Harry. He’s better than that.”

“Oh, but I thought you knew - I’ve already won Harry.”

The door slams open, “Albus, you should call Tonks and Moody back from London, Potter’s not there. I caught him sneaking--” Snape’s voice fades as he sees Tom leaning against the desk, Dumbledore sunk into a chair. From behind Snape, Harry sidles forwards, Ginny, Ron and Hermione lingering behind him with gaping jaws.

“Looks like you had a stimulating conversation,” Harry drawls, “Did you finish?”

“Got sidetracked,” Tom shrugs, “Hello Severus.” If possible Snape pales even further. “Harry,” Tom greeted, looking warm and utterly besotted for a moment that Ginny actually chokes and Hermione has to start thumping her on the back. Dumbledore straightens, pulling himself to his feet as Tom slips around towards Harry only for Snape to put himself in the way.

“I guess we’ll see if blindness affects you,” Snape drawls, “Would you like me to--”

“No,” Dumbledore says. He’s shaky on his feet, and Harry shoots Tom a glare, no doubt knowing what had been going on in the room, “No, stand down, Severus, they’re here in peace.”

“In  _ peace _ , they  _ broke in _ , you look--”

“Severus, this is not the time for old grudges.”

“Old grudges,  _ Albus _ , the Dark Lord is standing there alive and with full range of his powers--”

“Harry and Tom are welcome here,” Albus says, regaining some of his composure and stepping around his desk to the chair Tom had vacated. How quick he is to trust them irks Tom, just a but, he’d hardly been very trustworthy in the past ten minutes and it doesn’t make  _ sense. _

Yet Dumbledore’s gaze is resting on Harry and  _ of course _ , he trusts his precious saviour,  _ of course _ he thinks Harry’s had some sort of positive influence on Tom or something ridiculous like that--

_ “Welcome _ ,” Snape is the only one whose reactions are in the right place, "Welcome them? Welcome--" his sneer grows unpleasant like food rotting between his teeth, "I bet you haven't even thought to check them for weapons, Albus, remember this is a school with  _ children _ in it--"

At that point Tom quietly, and not discreetly whatsoever pulls out a handgun and drops it on Dumbledore's desk much to the old man's dismay, "Well," Tom clears his throat, "Shall we continue our conversation then? The extras can stay."

"What about Potter?" Snape demands, ignoring Tom’s dismissive tone.

"Harry's fine," Ron defends, stubbornly, and it's hard to tell if he can see the next few moments or is just being loyal, "We trust him."

"You might trust him," Snape says, "But he's been running around with the Dark Lord for the past two years."

"He's got a point," Tom says to Harry who shoots him a silent, mock-wounded look but dutifully pulls out another handgun, three knives of varying sizes and a toothpick. Ron chokes, and it's hard to tell if he's laughing or in disbelief.

"Happy?" Harry demands, a stubborn tilt to his jaw.

"Severus, leave it," Dumbledore tries to soothe matters.

"Are you sure that's all?" Snape ignores him, tone oily. Harry meets black eyes for a moment before with a sigh pulls out a letter opener.

"Ah," Dumbledore stares at it, "Is that from the common area?”

“Harry!” Hermione exclaims in mock-indignation. Tom’s lips twitch but he hides the smile, enjoying Harry’s rolling annoyance bordering on impatience and poisoned indulgence towards his friend’s whims and Snape’s distrust.

“Does that satisfy you, Severus?”

“No,” Snape snaps, “Are we sure he’s not under coercion? Are we sure Potter even  _ remembers _ , I mean it’s clear he’s not the same heroic little Gryffindor he once was. Allying with the Dark Lord reborn, being involved with the Lestrange murders, bank robbings… Albus, you saw his file. The boy killed his own  _ Uncle _ \--”

Harry flinches.

It’s like a gunshot, thrown casually into conversation but holding more weight than the man realises. Surprise alarm flares from Harry’s friends, Harry himself grows oddly stilted, green eyes widening because of all the worded weapons to use, that hadn’t even been  _ considered _ \--

Tom rounds on Snape with fury. The information does not surprise him. He had found that out  _ years ago _ , had been waiting for the day Harry would bring it up. He does not appreciate Severus  _ throwing _ it in Harry’s face, and he feels Harry’s pain and hurt flare up, “I’m sure you had  _ great _ control of your powers at eight,” he snaps, and he’s only vaguely aware of the arched eyebrow of surprise Dumbledore throws at him, he’s too busy digging out the sore pus-eaten wounds in the potion master’s psyche, guilt and loss of a love like open sores even after all this time--

Snape twitches, composure cracking, legs trembling-

“Tom,” Dumbledore says, and it’s his curiosity and surprise more than the warning in his tone that makes Tom reign in the emotions he’s pressing on the black-eyed man.

“Perhaps, Snape, before you go around throwing accusations out you should make sure your own hands are clean,” Tom turns away, uninterested. Snape isn’t important after all, he’s just a pawn who dreams of one day reaching the other side of the board. It’s Harry that’s important, Harry who is avoiding his friend’s gazes like the plague.

Because he can’t deny it. Tom’s known for  _ years _ , he doesn’t care, but these precious innocent friends of him?

He forgets sometimes that murder’s not socially acceptable.

And that sometimes? Sometimes words can kill.

Especially Harry’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [When telling your friends your abbreviated life history, the fact you killed your uncle is ranked surprisingly low on the list of things to tell them.]


	10. paint flakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up; next update would be due 1st June but I'm going to Australia on a placement for 8 weeks which means first of all, I may not have WiFi to get the next chapter out as per usual. Also for the next two months update times may change as my time zone moves ahead 9 hours or I may delay posting depending whether I have time to write.
> 
> Definitely going to keep writing though, thanks so much for the support!

He doesn’t know how old he is when he starts to remember, only that there comes a time when he realises that he remembers and the Dursley’s? They  _ don’t _ .

Don’t remember  _ what _ remains to be seen still, but he knows that whatever  _ it _ is his uncaring neglectful relatives don’t know it. Don’t have double vision when looking at events or pictures. Don’t dream of a world with magic at their fingers. Don’t have an adult understanding of some things and absolutely no understanding of others. Don’t have a haziness to the edge of his mind as if he’s forgetting something important.

Human minds, after all, don’t work like a tape recorder. It’s not as easy as simply taping over something. It’s more like one of those paintings where the artist reuses an old canvas, painting over the painting originally there with a shiny fresh new painting.

Bits of the paint start flaking off and showing through.

There is no lightbulb moment of understanding. It’s not as simple as deciding reincarnation is a thing, stuff like that simply doesn’t happen. It’s not until he’s presented with Tom Riddle that he’s faced with the undeniable proof that he’s not crazy. He assumed his skills and memories are simply an odd mutant manifestation. Vernon and Petunia still call him ‘freak’ and it takes him a while to reason that it’s not because he’s magic but because he’s a mutant.

“Mutants are so cool,” Dudley says, and doesn’t understand their disapproval in his aunt and uncle’s gazes. Harry does. He has been under that scrutiny for as long as he can remember.

“They are not  _ cool _ ,” Vernon fumes, “They are  _ freaks _ . Abominations.”

“But fire-breathing, dad,” Dudley misses all the warning signs, “Just  _ imagine _ \--”

“I will have no more talks about freaks in this house!” Vernon’s face is that of bruised peach, “Is it  _ cool _ to be able to control minds? To wash away half a city with a single thought? What about your cousin, hmm, is he cool?”

“But Harry isn’t a mutant, Dad,” Dudley stares at Harry with wide, slightly scared eyes.

“Of course he’s a mutant,” Vernon sneers, “How could he not be when his freak father and whore mother were both mutants? It’s  _ gen-et-tic _ . The bad blood will show itself eventually. Tell him, Pet.”

Harry’s throat closes in on him. The words are strange, harsh and rough and stick in the throat.  _ Mutant _ .  _ Genetic _ . They don’t sound like song or music the way  _ magic _ and  _ Hogwarts _ had, but somehow they carry the same meaning.

He sees for a moment a flutter of grief passing over Petunia’s face but then it’s gone, overcome with vindictiveness. “Mother and father were so proud of Lily. Look at what she can do, they said, as if they couldn’t see the demon that had crawled under her skin. That’s all they are, Dudders, monsters. You should be glad you’re normal like your father and I.  _ Human _ .”

Jealous, the older part of his brain whispers at Petunia’s sneer as she ushers Dudley away from Harry and towards the couch. It’s hollowed her out into this stick-thin empty woman who is always hungering for what others have and she wants.

“But I’m not a mutant,” he protests, “I don’t have any powers!”

“Oh, you will,” Vernon says, venomously, “Blood will out eventually, and you’ve nothing but bad blood--” he reaches for the cupboard that might have been Harry’s bedroom in another life, and pulls out a shotgun.

There is a good moment when Harry thinks the shotgun in Vernon’s hand is for him and that this is it, they’ll finally make good on their threat of getting rid of him. The gun mostly lives in the cupboard, locked up apart from the times that it sees daylight when Uncle Vernon takes Dudley shooting. Marge and Vernon thinks it ‘builds character’ but like most things Dudley’s interest in it wanes quickly.

“You see this?” Vernon waves the shotgun, threateningly but makes no move to aim at anything, “If you do anything freakish to any of us, I won’t hesitate.”

“Put that away, Vernon,” Petunia snaps.

“I have to scare it into the boy,” Vernon sniffs, “Don’t know what freakish stuff he could be able to do when he’s older, it’s best to teach them young--”

Harry does not remember his parents, does not know if what Vernon says is true or not but he remembers magic and if that follows true then-- “What did they do?” he asks, “Their mutations--”

Petunia lets out a loud shriek, “Don’t say the ‘m’ work!” she snaps, hands over Dudley’s ears. It’s ‘mutant’ not ‘magic’ but it feels the same, “Lily and her accursed  _ kindness _ , always so sweet, and  _ empathic _ and wrapping our parents around her thumb. Lily could do no wrong, not even when she ran off and married that dratted Potter--”

Vernon shivers, and whatever interaction he had with James Potter was obviously memorable for the wrong reasons. "Stupid woman,” he mutters, “A little freak whose stupidity got herself and her husband  _ blown into shreds _ \--”

“She wasn’t!” Harry snaps, because if there is one thing he knows at any age in any world it is that Lily Potter loved him and gave her life for his, “She--” his words are cut off as Vernon’s meaty fist lands on his cheek, silencing him. He mouths words but nothing comes out, shock permeating through him.

Vernon sniffs, “Don’t talk back to me, boy. If only you'd died with your mutant freaks of parents. Mutants like you should be killed at birth. Did you know they drown puppies that are born with deformities?"

Harry does, he has heard Aunt Marge complain about how it’s frowned upon these days.

"Should do yourself a favour and kill yourself like your good for nothing worthless parents did," Vernon sniffs, like Lily and James weren't even worthy enough to lick his boot.

Harry's temper snaps, "Maybe you should do everyone a favour and _ kill yourself _ . Save the rest of the world from having to deal with you."

Vernon goes half-still for a moment, his moustache quivering. He sways in place. There’s a taste like blood on the back of Harry’s tongue and a drain in his energy. Petunia reaches for the frying pan, “We gave you shelter and put food in your belly and-- Vernon… Vernon, what are you  _ doing _ \--”

Dudley looks up from the sofa, eyes wide and Petunia freezes. Harry doesn’t move, stubbornly, he won’t run, he won’t--

The shotgun Vernon had been brandishing wavers, then tilts up towards the ceiling.

"Dad?" Dudley asks, "What are you doing?"

Petunia's eyes widen, "What did you do to him?" she demands, "Boy, what did you--can you do what she did? CAN YOU DO WHAT SHE DID?"

"I DON'T KNOW! I don't know what my mom could do! I don't know anything about them, you wouldn't tell me, I don't know what I can do! I don't--"

Vernon appears to give in to the thrall, and Harry stumbles backwards as the shotgun is swung around, but it isn't pointed at him.

"VERNON!"

Harry stops. The air is thin and though he breathes his head is dizzy. The world is spinning.

Maybe you should kill yourself, he hears himself say, and he hears the power in those words, had heard them in  _ bow to death  _ and  _ jump on the desk  _ and he had taken them and made them his and the blast of a shotgun rings out as Uncle Vernon shoves the barrel of the gun in his mouth and pulls the trigger.

Petunia is screaming. Dudley is covered in speckles of blood and Harry can feel spots on his face, dripping down. He chokes on the smell, his ears ring with Petunia's scream and--

"Like my freak sister, like that boy of hers who messed with your senses, things always went her way, they'll lock you up, mutant, freak--"

Harry runs.

*

“I didn’t mean to,” Harry protests, standing in Dumbledore's office with Tom at his back and Snape sneering at him and his friends looking like their world has just shattered. He shakes his head, barely managing to stay calm and Tom might boost that emotion, just a bit, giving him a chance to catch his breath, “I didn’t… I was  _ eight _ , I didn't know I had powers, let alone  _ what...I...I… he _ threatened to shoot me, said I should have been put down as a baby and I told him that someone should put him down. I didn’t know what would happen; that he’d take it seriously.”

Ron’s staring, face pale. Hermione’s lips are pressed too tightly together and even Dumbledore looks grave. Harry steps back, shaking his head.

Because he can’t deny it. Not really. Petunia will look after her sister’s child right up until that child snaps out words of anger and conflicting memories and learns that actions and words have consequences.

Hermione looks in shock, “You  _ killed  _ him?”

Defensive anger flares. “I told someone once to forget they saw me and accidentally wiped their entire memories, don’t tell me you had perfect control of your powers!”

“I once set fire to an entire wing of my primary school,” Hermione snaps back, “I didn’t lose my temper and tell someone to  _ kill themselves _ \--”

“No, you just tried to burn them alive instead--”

“Enough,” Ron interrupts, horror edging his tone. “Hermione  _ do not _ start a fire--”

Her hand that had been curling open closes in a clenched fist, “I wasn’t going to.”

“Lie,” Tom chips out, too cheerily.

“What are you, a walking talking lie detector?”

“Basically,” Tom drawls, “Nervous spikes, it’s like a giant red flag--”

Hermione’s eyes widen in realisation, “You detect  _ emotions _ ,” she breathes, but somehow just looks more puzzled by the revelation, “You’re an  _ empath _ ?”

“Surprise,” Tom’s tone is a perfect deadpan, Harry secretly thinks he’s enjoying the shock people feel when he reveals that. “What, did you think I could fire out  _ killing curses _ or talk to snakes or something all dark-lordy?”

Hermione blinks and Harry can see Ginny mouth ‘dark-lordy’ like she can’t believe the words came out of Tom’s throat. Ron’s gaze is flickering between Tom and Harry and back to where Albus is glaring Snape into submission. Harry wonders what he’s seeing, what possibilities lie before them. It feels like he’s standing at the intersection and there are multiple routes that they can go. He and Tom still have full access to their mutations, they’d have the advantage if they needed to get out--

But they don’t need to run. Harry’s been running for almost a decade, it’s probably about time he stopped. “It’s okay,” Tom’s words are soft in his ear, stepping to stand close to Harry. They’re not touching but Harry can feel the warmth of Tom’s body next to him, “Dumbledore’s curious, and of course worried about his precious  _ saviour _ \--”

“I think he’s worried in general,” Harry says, because that had been the problem, hadn’t it. At some point Harry had stopped being Dumbledore’s prophesied child and started being just Harry. The old man had cared too much and for that reason he had tried to hide things from Harry.

Tom snorts, not understanding. His emotional capacity is greater than it used to be, but it’s still almost cute how some things that seem so obvious pass him by completely. “You reckon if we stay here, they’ll withdraw their patrols from London?”

“I think so,” Harry breathes back, “Last thing we need is Sentinel picking up on the fact there are new mutants in London and adjusting, it would just…” he huffs a noise of frustration.

“Harry,” Dumbledore addresses him for the first time has his head snapping up, green eyes meeting blue. He can almost feel them probing him, trying to figure out what Harry’s thinking but without the success that legilimency would have brought. Harry meets the gaze squarely and unafraid. Why should he be? All his secrets have been dragged into the open already. “You understand that we need to discuss this. The Order, the teachers here…”

Tom shifts besides Harry, and both neglect to mention that despite this visit, they’re not staying. Not forever. “Sure,” Harry says, “That’s fine--”

“And someone needs to tell the mutt,” Snape says, sounding unimpressed by this whole exchange, “Weasley, go fetch him, I believe he’s staying in the guest quarters with the wolf.”

There’s a hesitation as both Ginny and Ron sway, but Ginny is the one to move, “I’ll get him,” she says, slipping away, “Shall I grab McGonagall as well?” she asks, chewing on her lip and looking uncertainly between Dumbledore and Harry.

“Yes,” Snape snaps at the same time Dumbledore shakes his head.

“Yes, but not for blocking off anyone’s powers.” He silences Snape’s protests with a glare. “That won’t be necessary. Grab Remus too and if you can track down Alastor or Shacklebolt that would be great.”

Snape’s black eyes are hollow pits. He’s  _ terrified _ , Harry realises, fury and regret and fear all mixed together in regards to Harry himself and the man who destroyed so many lives standing besides him. He nudges Tom, the boy enjoying this far too much.

With a sigh, Tom clears his throat, “Would it help at all if I told you I don’t remember everything?”

“Nobody does,” Snape sneers, “That’s the curse of it.”

“I remember less,” Tom corrects, bluntly, “My soul was in shreds, I’ve got partial amnesia.”

Hermione perks up at that, looking like she wants to ask questions. Ron’s still silent, still assessing possibilities. Dumbledore hums, contemplatively, “I think we should take this discussion outside,” he says, carefully, “Before an over-enthusiastic godfather gets here.”

It feels like someone’s started kneading Harry’s heart like bread dough. He nods, mutely, as Dumbledore ushers the other three out of his office. Hermione still looks torn between horror and curiosity, Snape has a look of general distaste.

The door closes on them leaving Harry alone in Dumbledore’s office with Tom. His heart is still pounding in his chest and his hands are shaking. He’s had years to come to terms with what happened with his uncle, but to have it dragged out into the open had thrown him. 

This is me, Harry wants to say, here, look at all of it. The good and the bad. Is it horrible? Is it awful? Do you still accept me, am I still Harry in your eyes?

Tom barely reacted. Tom had moved to  _ defend _ him, callous indifference in his body language, Tom has already seen every jaded cut diamond slice of Harry and Tom...

“You knew,” Harry says to the older boy. It’s not a question.

“You practically challenged me to find out what happened to them when we first escaped the Facility, it wasn’t hard to put the pieces together,” Tom shrugs, “There’s a lovely newspaper article on it, knowing your powers I worked it out. I’m amazed they didn’t. I don’t care. They probably deserved it.”

Harry wants to roll his eyes at Tom’s callous attitude, and what does that say about him, really. He just begins pacing in small circles as Tom drops into the spare seat, throwing his feet up casually on Dumbledore’s desk. Harry runs an anxious hand through his hair, nerves getting the better of him, “What do you think they’ll decide? Dumbledore seems oddly receptive, I don’t know what you said to him but I thought he’d be trying to advocate throwing you into jail by now.”

Tom’s smile is thin, speaks of things Harry can only begin to guess at, “He came around, most do, eventually. You certainly did.” He’s staring at Harry with that same intensity to his gaze and Harry’s skin prickles uncomfortably. He can feel Tom's empathy on the edge of his emotions. They're far too in tune for his own good, he thinks. Tom lives far too vicariously through Harry's emotions for any of this to be healthy, and he hasn't cared, doesn't care, wouldn't if not for the way his friends look at him.

Look at  _ Tom _ . Tom who, Harry realises, he has come to trust far more than he should for a man who had once murdered his parents. Tom, who he is far too entangled with.

Tom's watching his turmoil with narrowed eyes. He can pick out the emotions but the thoughts evade him, he can only guess at Harry's mental state. Still, he  _ knows  _ Harry. They have shared minds and souls before. "If they're your friends they will give you a chance," he says, "Let them squabble it out for a while more," his head tilts, sensing it out, "I think they're still in the distrusting stage."

Harry drops onto the desk shoving Tom's feet off it to give him room to perch. "Might take them a while to get past that," he says, "It certainly did for me."

"But you came round," Tom shoots him a charming grin, "Must be my magnetic personality."

Harry stares at him, "You, using muggle idioms is still the strangest thing to me."

Tom's gaze is the closest to warm Harry thinks it gets, a fond, indulging look, a spark of something in those dark brown eyes. He’s like lightning and that dancing blue flames that burn static electricity across the masts of a ship. The air between them crackles. And though Tom denies it, it’s not just the remnants of the soul connection.

Harry stares, trying to work it out, not sure when Tom crossed the line from indifference into caring. Wondering how he hadn’t noticed it until now, witnessed Tom standing up to Snape and Dumbledore like a snarling feline, possessive and overprotective and--

“Okay.”

Tom blinks, looking like he has no idea what Harry’s talking about. And of course he doesn’t, Harry thinks, Tom doesn’t understand any of this and Harry doesn’t think he’s going to be the one to explain, not like this anyway. “Okay,  _ what- _ ?” Tom is asking, and Harry cuts the sentence off as he straightens from his slouch against the desk and curls fingers into the older boy’s shirt, tugging him up so their mouths meet.

It’s messy and awkward and it’s almost amusing how inexperienced the other boy is at kissing, and he huffs a laugh against Tom’s lips as he curls his fingers into Tom’s shirt. Tom stiffens against him initially, then relaxes, hands resting on Harry’s wrists like a manacle. 

It’s unfair that Riddle’s so damn attractive, that there’s this stupid emotional link between them. Harry wants to rip it out, wants to stamp on it until it’s bloodied and bruised and raw because it shouldn’t be  _ Tom _ that makes him feel this way.

He pulls back, Tom’s eyes are dark, pupils blown and smile like a corpse cruel seedlings in his maw, “Changed your mind, did you?” he asks, still so damn  _ smug _ , but it’s just  _ cute _ because he thinks he understands this but he  _ doesn’t _ , neither of them do, but it’s thrilling. It’s like throwing himself off a cliff with no clue what lies at the bottom and if Harry’s going to fall he’ll be damn sure he brings the other boy down with him.

“Just… just _don’t_ _manipulate my emotions_ ,” he says. It’s an old coercion, one he throws at Tom from time to time when he lets it fade off, a general check to make sure there is still autonomy--

Brown eyes blink, eyes dark and Tom  _ laughs _ . “Does that make you feel better?” he asks, because the words change nothing. Harry’s pulse is still racing, Tom’s still pressed up against him warm and  _ human _ \--

He wonders when the exact moment was that the empath slipped under Harry’s armour, smiles and charm and vicious bloody steel and warm indulgence. Like if they press together in the right way they might go back to being one soul again.

“Where is he--  _ Harry _ ?”

The door slams open and Harry drops his hands from where they’re still fisted in Tom’s shirt, gaze sliding over to where Sirius stands framed in the doorway. His heart does a funny skipping beat and he manages a weak smile, and it would probably be better if he wasn’t still standing inches from Tom. He didn’t really think this could get more awkward as he and Tom break apart, and as flustered as he is, it’s almost worth it for seeing the way Dumbledore’s jaw just  _ drops _ .

“Didn’t anyone tell you it’s polite to knock?” Tom drawls, gaze flinty with amusement, comfortable in his own skin despite the weight of eyes upon him. McGonagall and Remus appear in the doorway behind where Sirius lingers, gaze fixed on Harry.

“Sirius,” Harry says, warmly,  _ relieved _ because his godfather is alive. Sirius is alive and looking healthier than Harry had ever seen him. The grin that splits his godfather’s face stretches from ear to ear and Harry has no qualms about tearing away from Tom to throw himself at Sirius.

His godfather is warm and  _ alive _ and smells faintly like dog, even without his animagus form. His long hair tickles Harry’s cheek and Harry had missed this, just a bit, the feeling of having a parental figure.

Someone clears his throat, “Uh… I hate to break this up but  _ were you making out with Lord Voldemort _ ?” Ron looks torn between amusement and pure sheer  _ shock _ .

“Did you come to a decision?” Harry says instead before Tom can do something like answer  _ yes _ to that question. He untangles himself from Sirius. Dumbledore is still apparently doing rapid recalculations in his head because he’s slow to answer, gaze too sharp.

“There’s no decision,” Sirius scoffs, ruffling Harry’s hair in a fond, familial gesture, “Of course you can stay, Harry, we’ve been looking for you for  _ years _ \--”

“And Tom?”

Sirius falters, grey eyes flickering to where Tom lounges.

"We will give you a trial period," Dumbledore finds his voice, "For the pair of you, should you wish to stay, but it will apply to both of you. If you vouch for him, Harry, then anything Tom does is your responsibility."

“How wonderful, a babysitter,” Tom drawls, and Harry rolls his eyes, because it’s hardly anything beyond what he’s been doing these past years anyway. “It’s okay,” he smiles beguilingly, “I’m an honest criminal.” Harry can barely hold back the snort because that’s an oxymoron if he ever saw one, Tom took a mastery in lies and deception.

“This is a terrible idea,” Snape drawls, “I want it noted, Albus, that I told you this was a terrible idea,” Sirius looks like he almost wants to agree but won’t given who this is coming from. Snape whirls around and he’s not wearing a cloak or robes but he still somehow manages to contain that presence of billowing black as he stalks out of the office.

Sirius looks like he wants to grab Harry and tug him away from Riddle, grey eyes like a puppy, pleading and Harry ducks his gaze, guiltily. McGonagall clears her throat, “I’ll show you the school,” she says, “What you haven’t discovered already. And when we’re done, Mr Weasley, Miss Weasley, Miss Granger, we’re having a conversation about the correct response when someone  _ breaks in _ .” The ex-transfiguration teacher has not lost her stern expression and teaching tone. “And Mr Potter--” there’s a good pause as she contemplates Tom, “Mr Riddle,” she settles on, the words strange on her tongue, “No powers. No manipulation, no…”

“Empathy,” Tom drawls, they all know now anyway, hiding it gives them nothing and Harry suspects he enjoys the surprised cat-like blink from McGonagall, “I’ll be good.”

She gives a stiff nod, only somewhat appeased and Harry is well aware that Tom said that in the singular. Harry himself has made no promises.

Tom straightens, all business now and glances over at Dumbledore. “Will the Order keep out of London?”

For a moment Harry meets Dumbledore’s gaze. The blue eyes are far too judging and his lips pressed together in a tight line. He makes no move to speak and Harry turns away. Once maybe he’d have apologised, but he’s been through too much since that boy who walked into a forest to die.

“Yes,” Dumbledore says, and Harry can practically feel Tom’s emotions stabilize, like a purring cat. “Yes, the Order will stay away from London. For the moment.”

Tom’s triumph is clear to see, body language relaxed and at ease. “Perfect,” he says, smile like razor blades, damning in it’s implications.

Then again wanting something like Tom is damning in and of itself.

*

“And you’re  _ sure  _ you’re okay? How many times has Riddle tried to murder you?”

Harry bats off Sirius’ barrage of questions, he’s like a dog who won’t stop barking. Remus feels a fond look of exasperation as Sirius continues to try and mother the boy. He shoots Harry an apologetic look.

Harry looks well. His green eyes are as vivid as he remembers, Lily’s exact shade of emerald. They had been more noticeable when they’d first seen him, but he’s since removed the contact lenses and is wearing glasses again. The shape is different from his old round frames, the more modern squarer edge to them combined with whatever product Harry’s used on his hair means he barely resembles James anymore.

He looks like  _ Harry _ . Harry at sixteen, Harry who is almost as old as he had been when they had all died last time. He still somehow doesn’t look like a child, and that fact is heartbreaking in and of itself. He looks a bit too street-weathered, too-haunted to be a normal teenager, but he’s  _ healthy.  _ Healthy and  _ alive _ .

“I can punch him, do you need me to--”

“No, Sirius, forget about Tom for a moment, I can punch him myself. I can also tell him to  _ back off _ which I am very close to telling you now--”

“Awww, my pup has some  _ bite _ \--”

Sirius is delighted with Harry’s return. He looks more settled in his skin than Remus has seen him in months now.

“I knew you’d be okay,” Sirius insists, “S’why I tripped Tonks up, I… you needed time, and I’d kind of forgotten that, but I remember sneaking around, spending months on the run… letting other people help was hard at first--”

“How did you trip her up? That’s a pretty rubbish mutation,  _ tripping people _ \--” 

“No, it’s better than that, hang on, where’s Snape--”

“No,” Remus steps in, “Sirius,  _ no _ .”

Sirius pouts, “Later, then,” he says. “A grim’s luck,” he says, cheerfully, as if nothing could knock his mood down, “Bad luck on whoever I want. Could have gone really bad and morbid but instead I get to watch Snape fall down the stairs and spill coffee over himself and that’s  _ before  _ a student practicing telekinesis accidentally drops a tin of paint on him.” He sighs in joy.

Harry has a grin on his face, relaxing for the first time in what Remus suspects is a long while. He’d been so tense throughout the whole conversation in Dumbledore’s office. He’s like a bright-eyed street dog starved for affection yet wary of any hand that tries to pet it.

In a way, he and Sirius deserve each other, but Remus is smart enough to know it won’t last. Harry isn’t here to make it last, not with Tom Riddle in tow, staring around with distrustful brown eyes.

Riddle had slunk off towards where McGonagall had showed them their rooms. His wolf senses give him a scent of wariness and the hint of fear and beyond that a normal human. No snake. No blood. Just teenager, recent growth spurt and an angle to his cheeks that suggests he could eat a little more. Had it not been pointed out to him that Riddle was the Dark Lord, Remus would never have guessed.

He doesn’t see a Dark Lord when he looks at the boy. Just a teenager too clever for his own good who has decided to pick a fight with the world.

And to think Sirius and Dumbledore wonder why Harry stayed with him. To think they don’t see it, the similarities between the boys abandoned by the world. It’s terrifying when he looks at it that way, to see what the Dark Lord could have become if Fate’s di had rolled the other way.

Dumbledore still thinks the pair will fall into place and walk at heel, but Remus is a wolf at his heart and he knows another predator when he sees one.

No, Tom and Harry have their own plans this time around.

He wonders how Dumbledore will feel about being the pawn, for a change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Harry and Tom somehow manage to avoid the emotion-filled conversation because it’s the wrong time and place and Tom’s secretly still savoring Dumbledore’s expression.  
> Ron on the other hand--  
> “But he’s Voldemort--”  
> “He is kind of hot,” Ginny considers, and she didn’t think it was possible for her brother to look more horrified but he does. Harry better thank her later for hosting Ron’s freakout for him.]


	11. like mice, still living

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was not even written in time to post last month, never mind my recent travel excursions. Still, enjoy this extra long chapter!

Tom Riddle is born at the death of the year. His mother dies giving birth to him. He is intimate with death before he even takes his first breath.

Harry Potter dies with death bleeding off him. With death’s cloak and death’s wand and death’s stone and death’s blessing all culminating in the death green of his eyes.

Death doesn't discriminate between the sinners and the saints. All those at death’s end remember equally, good or bad. Harry is pretty sure he is no saint, he makes no pretense, but sometimes he still thinks Sirius or Hermione look at him as if he is. He isn’t. And maybe he’s the other extreme, he’s certainly not here to follow the rules. To follow the system.

He is not their sacrificial savior anymore.

Tom skulks around Dumbledore’s school in the hills and keeps his head down. He’s got the eyes of most of the staff keeping an eye on him in wariness and the students staring in open curiosity. He and Harry are new and strange and have spent too long on the streets. Rumours have spread even up to this remote corner of the country.

A few _know_. Their expression is awe tinged bordering on wonderment at seeing Harry, like they can’t quite believe he’s real. Their savior made whole again. The boy who lived and lived again and yet, Tom thinks, doesn’t really know how to live at all. He’s always moving, committed to a cause, perpetual motion trapped in human flesh. Even now, not even a full week in one place and Harry is beginning to look uncomfortable with the attention, with the staring and the expectations.

Even surrounded by his friends Tom can see the twitch in Harry’s fingers, the flicker of green eyes always casing the exits.

“Okay, seriously, does he have to be here?”

Ron Weasley is neither subtle nor appreciated, but even Tom can feel the solid trust that runs between the annoying redhead and Harry. Blue eyes assess him with distrust and disgust, barely concealed. His gaze flickers, wariness spiking and fading as curiosity rolls under his skin at whatever his mutation shows him. How good is it, Tom wonders. Can he see their end plan unfolding already or just the next minute of events? Does he know how long they intend to stay here or is that still murky to him?

Harry looks conflicted when faced with this dilemma, the choice between his friends and Tom. He’s already made this decision once, already turned away from them. He’s already chosen Tom over them, and it’s that maybe that stops him tugging the younger boy closer in a possessive streak that doesn’t seem to want to end where Harry’s involved.

Harry doesn’t answer, and Granger slaps Weasley ineffectually on the arm. “Do you really have amnesia?” she asks instead, sounding not quite skeptical, more polite indifference than anything.

“Did you really accuse your best friend of murder?” Tom matches her tone, and Granger flushes.

“That’s not--” she says, “I didn’t mean--” she shakes her head, bushy hair escaping the ponytail it’s been stuffed into, “I’m not calling you out on it,” she turns to Harry directly before turning back ot Tom, “It’s just wouldn’t you question it, just a little?”

“I don’t care,” Tom says bluntly, leaving his position from where he had been examining one of the bookshelves and stalking over to a chair. He sits like it’s a throne, confidence oozing off him and that simple act makes Harry’s friends flinch.

“Stop it,” Harry sounds too fond to be annoyed. “Talk to me, tell me how your Mum is doing,” he directs to Ron, “Are you parents still dentists? Has Bill still met Fleur?”

Their chatter is idle. Useless placeholders and Tom lets his attention drift. Lets his empathy wander. The school is filled with a mix of childish unrealities and teenage aspirations. It’s a little cloying and claustrophobic and it’s almost a relief to find Harry’s stabilizing silk spun happiness in the middle of it.

Weasley is still shooting him looks, half cautious, half suspicious. He’s sharper than he appears, he’d had the same look in Dumbledore’s office after he and Harry had sprung apart. Dumbledore had looked shocked. In denial. Mildly reflective and seeing something else. Weasley has that same expression minus the nostalgia. Like he sees something that Tom and Harry themselves are blind to.

How cute, Tom thinks, that they think they understand. That they can fit labels onto this, Harry himself has been avoiding conversation. It’s still subtext, still heated touches and that strange intimacy Tom hasn’t experienced with…

Well…

Anyone.

Souls touch, he think, and souls remember even if Tom doesn’t. Even if he dreams of graveyards and a killing light and a burning house, it always comes back to the boy with killing-curse green eyes.

He doesn’t believe in destiny or fate. Prophecy, maybe, but Harry’s somehow inevitable.

He’s brought back to the conversation by Harry’s somewhat loud, but mostly just indignant exclamation, “ _Lessons_ ?” Harry’s nose wrinkles, and he looks simultaneously aghast and confused, like the idea had never occurred to him. Neither he nor Tom have been to school in this life for _years_. A combination of bleed-over from their last life and their criminal status in this one means it’s something neither considered needed to happen.

“Of course,” Granger says, like it’s simple, “Education is--hang on, are you saying you haven’t been to school? But…” her eyes widen in horror, jaw slack.

“I think you’ve broken her,” Weasley laughs, as Harry’s gaze flickers to Tom’s for half a second. Tom’s lip twitches, because why not waste their time here being productive? This could be fun.

They will be the future after all, he might as well find out as much as he can about Dumbledore’s precious Order and the children they are raising at this boarding school for mutants.

“It’s kind of like Hogwarts,” Weasley is explaining, “Except there is no potions or transfiguration or charms; it’s all science and maths and how to write well.”

“That’s actually pretty useful,” Granger sounds reproachful, “I’m pretty sure most wizarding children never got taught how to punctuate properly, remember I proof-read some of your essays and some of them were truly hideous. These are all basic life skills and besides, it’s not like household charms exist, nor was transfiguration really any use in everyday life… I mean how often did you need to make a full dinner set from a cage of rats?”

“Oh,” says a dreamy voice from the doorway, “Are you talking about magic? Wouldn’t it be fun if it were real?”

A beat. Granger clears her throat, looking constipated, "Uh... Luna…”

Tom’s not quite sure what to make of the girl lounging in the doorway. She’s staring at the group with a soft gentle smile, emotions like the calm tide of an ocean at night under the full moon. The relief Harry feels at seeing her is palpable. “Luna,” he says, “You’re okay?”

“Hello Harry,” the girl says, “You look better without--” she gestures to her mouth and the bitter jealous possessiveness that had been stirring in Tom’s gut settles slightly. The girl at the facility, he remembers, of course, the clairvoyant. “I’ve been fine. It’s very nice here. Several people even dream about the same world we used to.”

The expression on Harry’s face is fondness tinged with nostalgia, “Yeah that… that’s pretty nice, isn’t it?”

“I’m glad you’re okay too,” Luna says, and there seems to be more weight to her words than there should be for such a simple sentence, and though her blue gaze doesn’t leave Harry, Tom is aware of her attention on him, oddly judging and yet oddly accepting.

Tom’s not sure why but somehow this strange girl’s approval feels like a victory. Like fate might actually be on their side. He shakes off that feeling; he doesn’t care after all, he controls his own fate.

He and Harry already have plans to puppeteer Fate’s strings to their own use.

*

It’s almost like they’re still at Hogwarts, Ron and Harry begging her help with homework in the common room while they’re late for potions.

Almost like it.

Key word: almost.

Shadows of memories haunt them, and it’s awkward more than anything because all three are acutely aware of how it had been and how it can never be like that again. It’s not just Tom Riddle in Hermione’s peripheral vision wherever she turns, nor the way that Harry always checks the room’s exits when he walks through the door.

Things have changed; it’s undeniable.

“Don’t you hate him?” Hermione asks Ginny, “It’s _Tom Riddle_.”

“Of course,” Ginny looks at her like she’s crazy, but she had literally just walked away from a reasonable conversation with Riddle about the weather of all things, “But he’s not Voldemort.”

“He is though,” Hermione says, “Just with amnesia. And besides… even at fifteen he was capable of murder.”

“He was,” Ginny acknowledges, “And he’s a horrible person but right now he’s Harry’s problem. We fought in a war, Hermione, and by sixteen I was capable of murder, so I’m in no position to judge.”

So Hermione stays quiet and watches. Listens. Thinks that maybe Ginny is right about one thing.

Tom Riddle is Harry’s problem. 

She doesn’t understand what exists between them, but the dark-haired boy with an edge of cruelty in his eyes is keeping his claws sheathed. He’s playing nice. There’s an understanding there that runs beneath what Hermione can see or understand so she stops trying to; it’s just frustrating her.

She sticks to what she knows. She sticks to facts.

“That’s not how you spell that,” she corrects Ron’s work over his shoulder as he attempts to make notes in class. McGonagall teaches them English, she’s the only staff member Dumbledore has located who teaches in this world as well. Tom spots some of the other Order members skulking around on a regular basis, but they stick to different wings of the manor from the students.

McGonagall’s gaze holds a fond edge when she meets the gaze of those she had taught once before at Hogwarts. Although, Hermione notes, there is a tinge of exasperation as she narrowly stops Seamus exploding something as she shouts across the classroom, “Mr Longbottom, please stop distracting yourself by growing flowers in my lesson!”

“It’s a succulent and it’s winter--”

“Mr Longbottom--”

“No, but seriously,” Harry whispers to her, “How does learning about the structure of a sonnet give me any life skills more useful than knowing how to make a pincushion from a hedgehog? At least in one scenario I have a pincushion at the end of it--”

“Mr Potter, please _focus_ , Remus’ extra tutoring can only go so far--”

Hermione’s pretty sure Remus’ tutoring is just an excuse for Sirius to hang out with his godson. Not that it matters. She thinks they should be allowed that much, at least.

Seamus and Dean keep shooting Harry curious glances. They’re some of only a few to hear Harry’s plot-hole riddled excuse for his absence. His history in this world condensed to a single sentence. Tom’s given less than a word, another mutant joining the fold is nothing new. That nobody recognises him means he probably isn’t a reincarnate, that Harry seems to _know_ him-- well--

Someone will question it eventually. Someone _has_ to question it. Dumbledore can’t just let Lord Voldemort slip into the flock like a wolf hiding behind the guise of a sheep and _not_ tell anyone.

Can he?

This is, Hermione reflects, the headteacher who had set up an elaborate protection scheme as a trap in a school full of children. No, no Dumbledore is not planning on telling anyone; he either thinks he can keep an eye on Riddle, or believes Harry has enough control over him.

Looking over to where Riddle sits, lazily copying out notes from the board she thinks it’s neither.

She thinks he isn’t interested enough to cause trouble here. Looking at him right now, he just looks uninterested.

Bored.

Clearly the pair are not here for lessons, and Hermione can only pray they’re here for something good. That Harry is making the sensible decision, that Tom Riddle has not burrowed his way too far into his head.

Because she sees her friend and she rejoices but she sees her friend who she had last seen dead, last seen about to commit suicide and now here he is with the mechanism of his own destruction and she fears.

She believes in Harry, but there’s always that doubt. That terror, the biting words, the _what do you mean you_ **_killed_ ** _him_ that creeps out of her. Doubt is their biggest enemy, after all, because doubt is what murders hope.

That could have been her, she sees Harry and thinks with horror. He’s got death on his tongue and she’s got death on her fingers. One wrong move and she too could have been a killer and that’s horrifying. It terrifies her. How close they all have come to crossing that line from hero into villain, from the good to the bad. How close she sees Harry walk it right now.

She doesn’t apologise for her harsh, cruel accusations. That’s not Hermione, to admit her flaws even though she knows she has them. She doesn’t know the situation, doesn’t know what happened beyond the cold hard facts (Hermione has always dealt in cold hard facts).

No, she doesn’t apologise because she can see the way Harry revolves around Tom Riddle. Sees the spark in his green eyes, the joys of the challenge and the almost fond tilt she thinks Riddle doesn’t realise appears in his body language when reacting to Harry. There’s a bit of Harry that reminds her of when he had been obsessed over the Hallows during their horcrux hunt. So _convinced_ that they held the answer.

Now here exists Tom Riddle, a new obsession, and a list of crimes that are a lot worse than a jail break and a bank robbery.

Harry’s hanging out with a murderer, Harry _is_ a murderer—

One is happenstance, she gets that, sure but twice—

Hermione deals in cold hard facts. She remembers the pain of ‘mudblood’ carved into her flesh and she knows that people like that don’t just commit suicide. Don’t just fall to their death.

Nobody else has made the connection yet. Put it together. And she won’t dare voice it until she’s certain, until she knows what it means. They were terrible people, sure, but where do you stop? Who knows how far this goes, what Harry’s hero complex exists as now, because this is _Harry_ , who wouldn’t even step aside to let his parents' murder go avenged.

She trusts Harry. She trusts him to do the right thing but with two deaths and Tom Riddle in his shadow, she's just a little bit scared of what they're planning next.

*

Harry had forgotten how tedious school could be.

It’s not _dull_ per se, but there’s a tenacity to the way every day trudges along, the unchanging monotone of a group of students who lack interest in the subjects they’re learning. Harry enjoys learning itself, he has taught himself several skills, most of which less than legal, but sticking twenty students in a classroom somehow manages to drain a lot of the enjoyment out of it.

That and half the students here know him. After growing up here in the shadows, unknown and unnamed, to suddenly find the spotlight again is disorientating.

He _hates_ it.

“You were in London?”

“Yes.”

“But Sentinel--”

“I avoided them--”

“Of course you did, our Harry, living under their noses--”

“I’m so proud, Fred, I never thought I’d see the day our reputation was outshone but ickle-Harrykins--”

“And you’re not even _twins_ \--”

“I didn’t pick the name,” Harry says, to Fred and George with exasperation that is more fake annoyance that true emotion. It hurts in the best way to see them together. Maybe Ron’s right, he thinks, because maybe this whole new world _was_ worth it if this is what allowed him to save everyone. For the first time in a long time it's like Harry can breathe, seeing both Fred and George, like a single name FredAndGeorge always together and not just George with Fred's cold unmoving body.

George scoffs, throwing an arm around Harry’s neck, “Suuure,” he drawls, “You don’t have to hide it from us, we know you were doing it in memory of your greatest role models.”

Fred clutches his heart, as if deeply touched, “That’s so… so… beautiful,” he takes a great shuddering breath, “I can only hope we live up to expectations--”

“Give it a rest, you two,” Ron looks perpetually annoyed by them.

“What’s your thing anyway?” Harry glances between the redheaded twins, “Your mutation?” He wonders if these things run in the family - Ginny’s got a mental shield, Ron’s got mental decision precognition, he think he heard that Charlie had some sort of mental animal communications.

“Ah,” Fred says, winking, “That--”

“That would be telling,” George finishes for him.

Ron rolls his eyes, “They can-- get _that off me_ ,” he flinches away from something. Harry catches the glimpse of something hazy, half there like a projection, “They project illusions,” Ron says with a yelp, jumping away from the unreal spider that appears on his arm, “Stop that, Fred--”

Harry muffles laughter, knowing Ron will not appreciate his mirth one bit. He’s all too aware of the questions he’s dodged for now, but the simple fact of it is that Fred and George are not the only one who have questions. He is, once again, the talk of the school. Harry Potter, _he’s been in London_ , stealing from _Sentinel_.

At least these rumours are true.

“I had a blast mimicking Peeves,” George says, “I can do sounds, voices, the ex-Hogwarts students were really fed up and the newbies started thinking this place was haunted.”

“Their looks of fear as the rumours spread were glorious,” Fred sighs, “It’s a shame we can’t run with the old joke shop idea here.”

“Or haunted house--”

“But McGonagall told us not to and threatened us with a power outage for a month if we went through with it.”

“Halloween was predictably boring--”

“Halloween was peaceful and quiet,” Ron mumbles under his breath.

“Halloween was when I heard Sentinel Services got robbed,” a new voice cuts into their conversation, high class British in any universe. Also nothing can quite manage to cause that level of irritation on Ron’s face. “Apparently you’re running around with _criminals_ , now, _Potter_ , my how the mighty have fallen.”

“You shut your smug face--” Ron narrows his eyes in displeasure.

“He’s not worth it,” Harry says sideways to Ron, pasuing half a second to make sure Ron isn’t going to punch the blonde in the face before turning to the new arrival.

Ron’s right. Malfoy looks as smug as always as he saunters over. His blonde hair is gelled up and his tone a class above the rest. Malfoy hasn’t changed, Harry thinks, observing the boy, confident and content in his kingdom. His gaze is alight with curiosity as he comes to a stop in front of him. “Guess some things don’t change,” Malfoy sneers, “You’re still an orphaned outcast and the Weasley’s are still dirt poor--”

Harry can see the burning questions, the curiosity, that strange acceptance and respect that Harry had seen in the last few times he had met Malfoy during the Battle of Hogwarts. “And daddy has a lot of money, I hear.”

A one shoulder shrug, “Lots of money and mutations for several generations. We’ve learned to keep our heads down, to find where the power is at and sit behind. We know better than to draw attention to ourselves _robbing banks_ or _setting schools on fire_ \--”

“Okay, you can insult me as much as you like but Hermione is _off limits_ \--”

“Ron, _drop it_ ,” Harry snaps, the last thing he wants here is a confrontation. Thankfully the twins get in the way of their brother. Harry watches dispassionately as Fred and George frogmarch Ron over to where Hermione is sitting. She looks up, gaze settling on Ron then sliding across to where Harry stands in front of Malfoy. Her expression takes on a tone of alarm, and Harry wonders what she’s worried about - is she wary of Malfoy or of him?

That fact that he doesn’t know the answer to that question himself scares him just a little as he turns to Malfoy, trying to be cordial.

He can handle Draco Malfoy.

Draco’s smirking, smug and arms crossed confidently across his chest. “Thought you were dead,” Malfoy eyes him up and down consideringly, tone surprisingly honest, “Heard your parents died and there was great to-do that they’d _lost_ you.”

“I guess they found me,” Harry says, almost amused by Malfoy’s attempts to wind him up. Malfoy’s nothing. He’s like a small fly in comparison to Harry’s problems right now, “Can’t say I’ve missed you, Malfoy.”

“Guess they did find you,” Malfoy hums, “Like you’d _die_ , that would be pathetic.” His words are almost kind, and then he has to go and keep talking, “Rumours are flying. That you’re running around London hiding from Sentinel. That you broke out of _jail_ . Like - really, have they _met you_ ? Saint Potter, _stealing_? Although I have heard one thing that is totally likely. I heard you ran off after you killed your fat mundane uncle."

Snape, Harry thinks bitterly, might be a war hero but he hasn't changed. Just as cruel and petty spreading that around, just as childlike in his bullying.

"Yes," he spins around, temper snapping because Malfoy still manages to get under his skin, "And do you know how I did it? I told him to. Just like I told your mad aunt to throw herself off that building. Just like I'm going to tell you to _get out of my way_."

Malfoy leaps aside as if burned, and when the implication of what just happened hits he takes another step willingly, eyes wide. "You can't do that," he snaps, "It's against the rules to use our mutations with the will to harm--"

"Do I look as if I care about rules?" Harry scoffs.

"Rules are made to be broken," Tom's voice appears from somewhere behind Malfoy, tone almost a possessive purr as he ignores Malfoy for eyeing up Harry almost hungrily, "You do amaze me when you use your power, sweetheart."

Draco turns, arching one eyebrow at the teenager behind him, "And who are you meant to be? Potter's boyfriend?"

Harry would deny it except Tom does somewhat give off that vibe, and also the suggestion in context is hilarious.

Tom's gaze flickers with dull disinterest over Malfoy, "Blonde and pointy," he quotes something Harry had said once, "You look more like your mother than Abraxas and his spawn."

Confusion sparks into anger, "Have we met?"

"Why, Draco," Tom's crocodile smile leers, _come closer, little dragon, come rest near my jaws so I can clamp my teeth into your_ **_flesh_ **. "Don't you recognise me? And to think you once bowed so readily, where was this backbone when you quailed on your knees while I branded you?"

Branded. Like cattle. Draco stares, goes ashen with horror and shakes his head, opens his mouth to complain but stops. "Y-you're--"

 _Shut up_ , Harry thinks with enough force Draco's jaw clicks shut, eyes bugging out of his head. His silver gaze slides over wildly to Harry and back to Tom, pieces slotting into place like a jagged jigsaw made out of bloody memories and scars. _He’s Voldemort_ , his eyes say to Harry, _what are you doing_ and Harry tilts his head in a slight shrug. Malfoy flails backwards, away from where Tom’s clearly enjoying this too much.

Malfoy’s eyes dart to something over Tom and Harry’s shoulder, lips still pressed together and desperation in his movements as the calming tone of the headmaster is heard. "That's enough," Dumbledore appears like a great white bird swooping in, voice a finality, "Tom, Harry--"

"I didn't say anything," Harry says, and _oh_ , it’s an easy lie, a truthful lie. It’s obviously a lie but it slips out anyway, and Tom just _laughs_.

“We were just having a conversation,” he says, Malfoy’s eyes still bugging out of his head, the accusation still chained to his tongue.

“How wonderful,” Dumbledore says, and doesn’t sound happy at all, just oddly resigned, “Harry, I was wondering if I might have a word?”

He feels Tom’s gaze on him, but they’d both known this was coming. Harry tilts his head in assent, but is acutely aware of both Tom and Malfoy’s gaze as he slips into step behind the headmaster.

He hopes he finds Malfoy in one piece later.

*

It feels like the train station all over again. There’s a sombre silence between them, man and boy except he’s far too old and made far too many mistakes and the boy isn’t a boy really. Not anymore, their combined decisions have made sure of that.

He longs for castle grounds to stroll through, for the still lake and smooth stone and the thrum of magic. Instead all he feels are the tickle of memories when he meets the mercury green gaze of Harry, eyes far too jaded and old to be that of the sixteen, seventeen year old he looks, even though he’s never grown much older in either lifetime. In Harry’s memories he sees flashes of Tom, the other man - boy - so young, so similar to the one Albus himself had known and yet _different_ and he still can’t quite wrap his head around it.

He looks away. He is not here to pry out secrets by trickery and mutations. His gaze rests on the rolling Yorkshire hills through the window as the pair come to a slow stop. He can almost feel Harry’s impatience as he finally speaks. “What is this about, Professor?”

“I’m not your Professor anymore, Harry, not just do I believe the qualifications are different but unless I am not mistaken you and Tom do not intend to linger here.” the boy doesn’t meet his gaze and he knows he’s right.

He sighs. For a moment he blinks and he sees a young boy before him. At a ratty orphanage bed, behind wide circular spectacles they blur together until he blinks and it’s just Harry, this young warrior he has seen forged in fire and war.

“I needn’t tell you to be safe or be careful, as much as I wish to,” he says to Harry, “You know, possibly better than all of us what Tom Riddle is capable of.”

“Then what did you bring me here to say?” Harry challenges, Gryffindor defiancy showing through the Slytherin the boy has made himself into to survive this brave new world. _O brave new world that has such people in it._ “I doubt you wanted a chat about the weather, _Professor_.”

He doesn’t drop the title, maintains that carefully established distance between them. “He’s a murderer,” he says, just to gauge Harry’s reaction. “He’s as much a manipulator as you are, Harry, make sure you don’t forget that in whatever things you have planned.”

“But it’s like you said, Professor,” Harry’s tone is a facade of politeness, “He’s not the only manipulator.” His words dig and he flinches, just a little.

He looks at Harry and the boy’s mutation is terrifying, that’s true, but all mutations can be terrifying if misused. He thinks Harry’s probably the best person to end up with coercion and certainly the one he trusts the most, even having felt the effect of it.

But Tom…

Certainly not what he expected.

Tom Riddle, Dumbledore thinks, given empathy is a terrifying thing to behold.

But Harry Potter with the Imperius Curse at his beck and call may just top that.

*

“He’s not the only manipulator,” Harry says, and he’s not just talking about himself and Tom, he thinks, as he looks at Dumbledore.

He’s tired of these games. Of this animosity.

Time for them to admit all their flaws.

Dumbledore flinches. Good. “Harry,” he sighs, as if a great weight rests upon his shoulders, “There is so much… I have so much I need to apologise for.”

Harry meets blue eyes that aren’t twinkling, are just _old_ and so tired. A lifetime worth of mistakes except this time, this lifetime-- “It’s okay,” he says. It’s not, it’s not okay in the slightest but…

He still dreams of the cave and the lake with the dead bodies dragging him down. Of the mark hanging above the tower, of that helplessness as he stands frozen, watching someone killed.

He’d realised before, that he would have to fight this war, but he thinks that was the moment it hit that it was all down to him.

How _dare_ he put it all on Harry?

How dare he _die_ and leave it all on the shoulders of a sixteen year old boy?

But he died, he _died_ , and Harry had died and died again and yet here they both stand and it...

It doesn’t matter. It’s in a different life now, and he sees Dumbledore relax slightly, appearing to understand.

Harry is nothing to Dumbledore - a martyr, a weapon, a tool. Dumbledore cares little for people in the overall picture - he cared little for himself too, in the end, falling from the tower with a green flash was just another move on the chessboard.

Arranging your own death is the ultimate power move and it makes Dumbledore an amazing awe-inspiring man, but it makes him just that. A man, full of faults and not the god he pretends to be.

Voldemort had thought himself a god too - indestructible, untouchable - at least until Harry had torn away the last of his horcruxes. Tom in comparison is beautifully, painfully human. Harry sees flashes of the dictator still there, the poise and disdain but there is such _vision--_

Harry has known ambition since he was a child in all lifetimes. Many would argue that he's shortsighted and doesn't see the bigger picture, that sliding through by the skin of your teeth is not ambition, but they don't see the final goal.

Killing a Dark Lord is damning in it's ambition.

Succeeding was devastating.

“I do not deserve this, but it warms my heart to see you alive,” Dumbledore says, and Harry relaxes slightly, a weight he hadn’t known was there sliding off his shoulders. Dumbledore is, after all, just a man. They’ve both made mistakes, got a list of sins a mile long. Hating the old man has grown old, and Harry isn’t quite sure the moment when he had stopped but only knows that he has.

“It’s good to see you too,” he says, still tense but less so following Dumbledore’s apology, “Nice school you’ve got here. Great meals.”

He’s bluffing, the only meals he’s had thus far are what Sirius has spoiled him with and he’s pretty sure it’s not standard school fare. Dumbledore huffs a quiet laugh. “I did my best, even before I remembered, to provide a safe place for mutants. A safe world… had been my dream for _years_ \--”

“Did you meet Gellert here, as well?” Harry asks, he’d never got the story last time and he feels now he doesn’t need it. “Did you plan together. _For the greater good_? Was he charming?”

“Is Tom Riddle _charming_ , Harry?”

Harry laughs, “Tom is not Grindelwald and I am not you.”

“No,” Albus’ smile is too wry and he lingers by the window, gaze resting on the rolling hills around the manor, “No, you are smarter than I ever was. I was a fool, both then and in this world and Arianna--”

“Did she die? Here?”

Dumbledore’s head tilts to the side and he strokes his beard. It is not as long as it had been, not trailing near his belt but still white with the hint of pepper grey. “Not in the same manner,” he says, slowly, “Not everything is mirrored here, no matter how perfect the set up may be. Grindelwald and Aberforth and I killed her in our squabble once before. This time our idealogies tore us apart as they were fated to, and she was lost to us.”

“I hear Grindelwald’s still alive too,” Harry says, tone neutral. He knows better than to probe too much, Dumbledore will get suspicious. He keeps his distance from the topic, lets the old man sigh, lost in his own memories for a change.

“He believes in mutant superiority. I did too, once, but now I see co-existance is the only route to our survival.” A pause, and for a moment Harry thinks he’s under scrutiny but Dumbledore doesn’t push, simply says, “Don’t threaten that, Harry, there are more people than you and Tom involved in this.”

“You and Gellert are not the only ones with the right to decide our future.”

“No. Which is why once again I lock myself in my school and Gellert attempts to make waves on the continent with dreams of destruction. He retreated back to his endless war. I pray for your sake that you are right and that Tom is nothing like Gellert.”

Tom hasn’t left him, Harry wants to say, Tom came back for him.

“You’re good for him,” Dumbledore notes, resignation and an odd respect in his voice. “And you’re a better man than I, if you can see good in him after everything.”

Or maybe Harry and Tom are just using each other. For their own goals, for emotional stability, for the _challenge--_

He just shrugs. “We’re good for each other,” Harry says, “This isn’t the Wizarding World, no matter how much you try and make it. Tom and I just learned to adapt.”

“No, this is a new world. This is not a mirror, no matter how much our memories may decieve us. It is both a blessing and a curse, and there are times I don't believe we were meant to remember at all," Dumbledore says, sighing, "I believe Hogwarts protected us."

“Yes,” Harry agrees. He does not argue, does not shatter that sweet delusion. Hogwarts protected them. How _quaint_ , he can practically hear Tom’s sneer in his mind. That the sentient magic could hold their memories intact, and maybe it did. One last gift from his own home, and not just a fractured mistake of the Hallows. “And this world?” he poses the question, curious to see what theory the clever man has spun, “What gave us this second chance?”

“Ah, well that’s the question, isn’t it? Sometimes, Harry, sometimes second chances exist for no reason at all. Or maybe there is a reason and we don’t find it. The real question is not how we came by this second chance. It’s what we do with it.”

*

Harry leaves his conversation with Dumbledore feeling less animosity towards the man, and yet more frustration. The old man is a headache in any world; the conflict of dichtomy and peace wrapped in a twinkling gaze. He understands a little why Tom hates him, that feeling of innaction that Dumbledore presents to the world, but Harry knows he hasn’t even seen a glimpse of the chess game behind the scenes.

He’s still contemplating it when something knocks into him. Hard.

The breath rushes out of him as his back hits the wall. He’s instantly tasting cyanide on his tongue before he recognises the flash of platinum blonde, “ _Malfoy_?” he hisses, “What are you doing, I could have--”

Malfoy is not saying anything. That’s the first thing Harry notices. The next thing is that he’s gesturing angrily. To his mouth. Miming words but nothing comes out--

Harry blinks, realisation slipping into place with something that is more annoyance than horror, “It wears off eventually, you know that, right?” he asks, and he’s very tempted to leave Malfoy like that. He wonders what Ron and Hermione would say - Hermione would be horrified, of course, Ron would love it.

And Tom would be so _proud_ \--

With a sigh he squints at Malfoy for a moment, “You can _talk_ ,” he says, because that’s the easiest to do rather than trying to unroot his own coercion that has sunk in deep through too much bitterness on his part.

“Thank _fuck_ ,” Malfoy says, words crass, expression softened by relief as he steps backwards, massaging his throat like the coercion had physically pained him, “That’s messed up, Potter, that’s really--”

Harry scoffs, “You’re telling me?” he asks, shoving Malfoy away from him so he can continue on his way, unimpeded by blonde brats, “You’re welcome.”

He makes it four steps down the corridor and Malfoy’s voice echoes along the walls. Portraits stare down, unmoving, and curtains lining the windows soften the words but they still hang in the air like the scent of rotting meat on bones already picked clean. “Why haven’t you _killed_ him yet?”

He stops, head turning around but his back still mostly to Malfoy. Because it seems stupid, really, but the honest answer is the idea hadn’t occurred to him.

That’s a lie, because of course it _had_ . But never as a concrete plan, never to that extent, Harry hadn’t needed to contemplate that as an option. He’d known he _could_ and that had been enough.

Maybe a part of him enjoys the power he knows he has over Tom. The ability to make his life tormentor dance at his words and apparently even without his mutation Tom will listen to him. Dote on him like a cat who brings back dead birds and mice, still living for it’s owner. It’s laughable because is that really how it works or is he just a puppet on Tom’s strings, playing to his tune like a good little wind-up soldier?

Harry doesn’t know, and that should be terrifying, should be devastating in the uncertainty but…

It’s _thrilling_.

“He murdered your parents,” Malfoy continues, “He destroyed Hogwarts, hell, he’s probably why we all ended up here, have you _seen him_? We’re all here with nightmares about the battle and he’s there, young and whole and--”

“That was me, actually,” Harry spins around to fully face Malfoy, because what’s the point in hiding it now?

“The... _what_ was?”

“Both, technically. The new world, although if we’re getting technical you had a hand in that. And Tom being my age, again, my fault, but it wasn’t intentional.”

Malfoy mouths the name _Tom_ like he’s expecting a snake to appear and strike him in the throat should he dare voice it. He still looks confused. Fearful. That slice of bravery he does possess presenting itself as ire directed straight at Harry. “You’re not that good,” Malfoy argues, “You killed my aunt, killing the Dark Lord? Not much of a step. You like to pretend you’re the good guy, the hero, but really you’re not. You’re still just a kid everyone thinks is special for no reason.”

Harry laughs, “We’re all special, Malfoy, that’s the problem. I? I never claimed to be a good person but you know what? I’m a hell of a lot better than some people I could name that you hang around with. Your dad. Vincent Crabbe. Parkinson. Bellatrix got what was coming to her.”

“Will the Dark Lord?” it’s a challenge, but also a question, “Will… _Voldemort_ get his due?”

Harry shakes his head, “Didn’t you hear, Malfoy? Voldemort’s dead,” he spins away, “I already killed him.”

He feels Malfoy’s stare following him down the corridor like an itch on his back but he ignores it. He’s got bigger things to worry about than the grievances of Draco Malfoy. And maybe he’s taking this burden onto his shoulders again unnecessarily, but that is after all his thing. Playing the hero, they say, maybe it’s time to step back and let somebody else handle it, but that sense of guilt and responsibility still clings to him.

He’s got to see the bigger picture.

It doesn’t stop that small part of him that wants to forget all that. The part that wants to stay here and join Dumbledore’s super secret boy band. The part that wants to blank the world, wants most important thing he has to worry about to be homework and lessons.

But that has never been him.

He’s almost grateful to Dumbledore in a way for allowing him a mockery of that for a few precious years at least. He’d had a childhood, a normal school life to the extent that he’d been able to. He’d resented Dumbledore once for trying to keep him in the dark, but now it’s stripped away he sees what the old man had been trying to do.

And it would be so _easy_ to slip into this life with Ron and Hermione and Ginny and _Tom--_

Tom doesn’t fit in this life. He looks out of place in the halls of the manor, wary of the children that dash around him. Like a king out of his kingdom.

What had Harry done to form a sympathetic bond to Tom Riddle of all people? Who had he pissed off in another life that this boy, man, mortal enemy turned ally turned something else still fascinates him so, still gets under his skin and entangles them together until he can’t tell where Tom ends and Harry begins. There are times he wants to rip out the roots, no matter how many ribs he tears out in the process, but he can’t.

It would be like ripping his own soul apart. And sure, maybe Tom would not have been the one he would have chosen ten years ago, but Tom is the one that found him, this brown-eyed boy with grand plans and a lack of impulse control and velveted words and poisoned visions. He is a black hole, maddening and inescapable and Harry doesn’t even want to try.

Tom Riddle sees all the parts of Harry that he tries to hide and accepts them. It may be rooted in pettiness and cruelty that he wants to watch them grow, but there is no judgement there, only wonder and a kaleidoscopic vision for something more. Something better.

He makes Harry want to _live_ and not just survive.

He comes to a stop in front of the door, lingering for only a moment before knocking and pushing it open. This is not Hogwarts, this is not home. That’s gone, destroyed in dust and ruin and in Harry’s own will. He cannot stay here.

“Sirius?” he says as he steps into the room, his godfather looking up with a bright smile like Christmas has come early. Harry weighs up his words for a moment, testing the waters because this is why they’re here, family reunion aside, and he knows already their stay here is trying Tom’s patience. “Sirius, I was hoping you could tell me about how my parents died.”


	12. calculating suspicion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this remains somewhat rambling, but this story is wandering in the right direction now. Hopefully updates speed up, my 23hr return flight is today. Thanks for the love and comments!

Harry thinks he might as well have punched Sirius in the face, it would have had the same impact as his demand. It’s not even a coercion although he’s so close to just spitting out ‘ _ tell me _ ’ so he gets the full story without lies, omissions or hesitations.

Remus lingers in the shadows of the fireplace, while Sirius starts up wearing a hole in the carpet. His pacing is anxious, but also just pained. Harry’s glad he’s not Tom with his empathy, feeling the full brunt of Sirius’ grief, two lifetimes’ worth weighing on his shoulder.

“If Voldemort didn’t exist then I don’t understand how they died,” he says, into the tension-filled air, “Tom was  _ three _ , and stuck in an orphanage with no memories.”

“The truth is that we don’t know fully,” Remus says, slowly, “They ran. They were spooked. We didn’t remember but… it was like déjà vu at times, something just resonated, and something must have worried them because they ran. From us. From Dumbledore. From everyone, no note, no goodbye, nothing until their deaths.”

“But you must know  _ something _ ,” Harry says, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Of  _ course _ they remembered bits and pieces, they were his  _ parents _ and he’s the link. He’s the one who united the Hallows, he’s the key to all of this. He remembers first followed by those closest to him. Those whose spirits he tethered to him, his enemy whose  _ soul _ was entwined with his…

“Sure,” Sirius finally stops pacing, “We know the situation. But it’s not the same as before – there wasn’t a war, we’d lost contact with Peter years before--

Dumbledore is right, Harry thinks, despite first appearances this world is not a mirror. They are not distorted reflections of their old selves; they are new beasts entirely.

“Lily worked in research. Everyone loved her. She was a… kind of a backwards telepath, except with empathy. Impressed all these feel-good emotions onto people, always knew the right thing to say to make you feel better, or to make you really hurt--”

Like Tom, Harry thinks, his mother had her own brand of power but it was empathy when it came down to it.

“James could lie. The most outrageous sentences could come out of his mouth but if he wanted it to you would think it was true. You’re like a combination of their mutations, coercive instructions, I guess. Lily always saw through James’ lies though and he of course thought that was grand--”

That would be nice, to have got his mutation well-deserved instead of through some magical backlash or personality trait given reality. He can’t tell which it is and he doesn’t think he wants to.

“They didn’t go to the same school. James and I went to the same school - this high end, posh private affair our parents’ thought was a good idea. Lily went to the local public school, but she used to study in this cafe and James saw her one day and that was that. She went on to study at University - a degree in biochem with a special interest in genetics. She took a few modules, found a research project she joined that investigated mutants. What made us different? What made our powers tick?”

_ “We have to hide Harry _ ,” Lily shouts in his head, and that’s not all, there’s still more to the story. “And then you joined the Order,” Harry prompts.

“Then  _ Lily _ joined the Order. Dumbledore worked in science before starting in the whole politics of mutant rights. Lily ended up working for his team for her PhD. Dumbledore approached her at some point about her research.”

There’s a pause as Remus hands over a picture he’d fished out from somewhere during the conversation It’s dust covered and crinkled over still faces. Harry can see Lily almost immediately, smiling at the camera. A mix of others, he doesn’t recognise most of them, but spots Arabella Figg, sees Dumbledore looking about forty, sees a young woman with coppery auburn hair, sees the blonde-haired man next to Dumbledore with mismatched eyes and a wild laughing grin—

“She worked under Grindelwald.”

“And Dumbledore,” Sirius says, like that makes it better.

“Yes,” Remus says, “The project was a collaboration looking into mutant genetics. Don’t ask me about the science of it, I run a bookstore.”

Sirius offers a lazy shrug, “It was pretty high security anyway. Hush hush stuff, so much political play and as you’ve already spotted, Grindelwald jumped straight out of science into politics with Dumbledore on his heels.”

“Was this before or after my parents were murdered?”

Harry already knows the answer to that question.

Remus takes over the storytelling as Sirius restarts his restless pacing. “We don’t know what Lily found out. She told James and then dropped off the grid, taking you with them. Dumbledore tried to find them, but James was a detective for a reason. Nobody was going to find them unless he wanted them to. The next thing we heard was that they were both dead and you’re gone.”

“That was when Dumbledore brought me in,” Sirius sounds tense, “Or, y’know, I almost knocked down his front door to join the investigation. And it was too damn late. Again.”

Harry feels awkward. He wants to comfort his godfather, but he doesn’t want to feel like the child Sirius thought he had lost. “What was my mum working on?” he asks instead, sombrely.

“Wish we knew,” Remus shakes his head, “She destroyed her research and Dumbledore—”

“Fat lot of good Dumbledore is,” Sirius shakes his head, “First he sets her on some secret project, then he loses track of you, and he won’t even share what she was doing. But whatever it was, Grindelwald wanted it. Badly enough to kill. Badly enough that it catapulted both Dumbledore and Grindelwald into a political battle.”

Harry looks down at the photograph of the research team. His mum’s smile is so light. Happy.

Grindelwald and Dumbledore look close; still friends, still allies, still working towards some greater good.  _ They fell apart _ , Dumbledore had said, and neglected to say when. The shame is still there, still strong. How must it feel to be duped not just once but  _ twice _ ? To fall for someone’s wiles and charm?

Is Harry not doing the same, falling for Tom’s gilded poison-honeyed words?

The picture is unmoving, a cold stone snapshot of the past. Grindelwald and Dumbledore look young, he thinks, younger than they should.

Gellert Grindelwald should, by all accounts, by an old man.

He's not.

He looks young and charming and, in his twenties, not in his hundreds. With a charismatic tongue and handsome looks he is the devil incarnate, mutation thriving in his veins.

“He changes his age,” Harry realises, suddenly, staring at the picture that is still and unmoving and yet he has seen this face in its’ youth before. Both the laughing boy stealing a wand and the handsome teen standing next to a young Albus Dumbledore. “He shouldn’t be so  _ young,  _ he and Dumbledore both.”

“He’s  _ persuasive _ ,” Sirius corrects, “Gets in your head, a bit like you, except people just  _ like _ him. Follow his cause. He shows them things and they lap it right up.”

Harry frowns because  _ something doesn’t fit _ . ‘Psychedelic visions’ he’s heard Tom say once in regards to Grindelwald, ‘he’s  _ charming _ ’ but he’s the wrong damn age--

They must be wrong, Harry thinks. Grindelwald’s power is not a silver tongue – he’s just charismatic – Grindelwald’s power must be age manipulation. For not just himself, but others too, and he should have asked Dumbledore why his birth date didn’t match when everything else did. Mirror or not, people do not just  _ change age _ , Tom’s shattered soul aside.

That’s one way to become Master over Death, Harry thinks, to keep yourself young, to keep your followers young. To keep your  _ lover _ young, at least until you’ve had enough, at least until he starts to rebel.

It answers his questions, at least partially. It’s the start of the missing puzzle piece, and he knows it’s all Sirius knows. It all comes down to their mutations in the end.

“So Dumbledore controls memories and you get to turn into a wolf. Snape gets to mess with your senses and Kingsley has enhanced senses and Tonks can… what is Tonks’ thing anyway, I thought she was like… she was a shapeshifter but--”

“She is but it’s not physical. It’s more of an illusion, she tricks your perceptions, makes herself appear different to your eyes. She avoids notice, she’s inconspicuous to most powers. Clairvoyants don’t read her, she just… drops below radar. She can sneak up on Kingsley if she doesn’t fall over herself. Looks like Riddle can’t sense her either until he knows she’s there.”

Harry swallows, “And you? What can you do?”

Sirius’ smile grows mischievous and it ages him 20 years younger in an instance. “That,” he smirks, “Is best demonstrated.”

*

Tom stalks through Dumbledore’s school like a wraith. A shadow. A  _ memory _ .

He wants to laugh at the irony.

There are parts of the manor that have clearly been made to appear like Hogwarts, and others that are clearly meant to be as little like the magic school as possible. It’s haunting more than comforting, the ghost of what could have been.

The Order flit in and out like it’s their base. It probably is. The students mill around chatting and being children and he’d probably think it nice were Tom’s mind not filled with shadow memories and the knowledge that this is  _ not home _ . This is not Hogwarts, and he can’t wait for Harry to finish information gathering so they can  _ leave _ —

Granger watches him with narrowed eyes, lips pressed tightly together and fist clenched as if extinguishing unborn flames. There is a calculating suspicion on her face, like she’s trying to work out the puzzle that is Harry and Tom which, well, they haven’t worked it out themselves yet.

Malfoy avoids him in wide skirting arcs that his friends and cronies are starting to notice. Snape stares at him when he thinks Tom isn’t aware of it. Dumbledore treats them like long lost grandsons when he’s not trying to figure out their plans.

Tom is not here to follow their rules.

“That’s not creepy at all,” the Weasley girl finds him lurking in the shadows near the corridor that leads to Dumbledore’s office. Nobody is in; he senses emptiness from there. Then again he can’t sense the girl next to him; probably how she got the jump on him. “The Order don’t hold their meetings here, if you were looking to spy. Not that it matters, Sirius and Remus will tell Harry everything anyway, and he’ll tell you, isn’t that how it works, right?”

“Ginny, isn’t it?” Tom tilts his head, tone trying for polite and instead bordering on condescending. “Ronald’s sister?”

Her smile grows sharp, “You forgot. Or maybe you never knew to start with,” she eyes him up and down, somewhat appreciatively and Tom feels uncomfortable as she observes him like a piece of meat.

“I remember things worth knowing,” he says simply, and her gaze flashes up to meet his, full of fire and spark. Harry had dated her, he remembers now. How  _ cute _ .

“That’s good,” she says, matching his tone, “Then you’ll remember that if you hurt Harry, I’ll kill you. I know what you’re like – the others might get distracted by the pretty package but I know how you use words to play people like puppet strings. And if you ruin Harry, then I’ll ruin you.”

“What would Harry think of someone else fighting his battles for him?” Tom questions.

“He’d hate it,” she says, simply, stepping forwards to stare directly at him. It might have been effective were she not a foot shorter than him, “But he’s not here. And you are. And you should know, I  _ know you _ , just as well as he does.”

“Do you,” his tone is flat, “You left such an impression excuse me if it takes a few moments. Harry doesn’t talk about you much.”

The jab goes unfelt. Tom hadn’t realised how much he used emotions to gauge reactions until he’s confronted with someone he can’t feel at all. It’s unsettling, it’s both dull and also fascinating. He’s having to resort back to looking for physical tells instead – easy, this girl is full of them – but also harder to figure out what she’s not saying.

That’s okay. She’s a Gryffindor, she says it anyway, “I met your diary. You’re a bit like him.”

Ah. He examines her again in light of this information and it changes his assessment of her just a little. Not as much reckless and calculating and  _ knowing _ . He narrows his eyes, “Then I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you to stay out of my way, little girl.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she is not intimidated in the slightest, “I’ll enjoy watching Harry take you down from a distance, because you’re right. He doesn’t need me to defend him. If you hurt him, he’ll kill you himself. After all,” she spins away with a shrug and a smile, “I hear he’s already done it once before.”

*

There is a loud crash at lunch. A few students look up, curious. The vast majority don’t even flinch.

“That,” Ron says, through a mouthful of sandwich, “Sound like Sirius befalling bad luck on people walking down the stairs.” There is loud cursing, “Probably Snape.”

“He ‘bends luck’,” Harry quotes the explanation Sirius had provided for him, “Are you sure he doesn’t just make people fall over?”

“No, I once saw him do it to Moody in a training exercise. It was both hilarious and disastrous. Moody managed to get his peg leg stuck in a grating, he fell in a way that brought down some scaffolding, a bird got scared and flew off and—”

“And Moody fell over,” Harry points out.

“Quickest way to incapacitate them. I’ve also seen him catapult the cutlery drawer across the room and manage to stab every knife into the door. Twisted luck just enough to manage that, but not to hurt the person there – I think it was Remus, actually, the pair were bickering.”

It sounds petty. It sounds fantastical and it sounds perfectly like Sirius.

Harry’s lips twitch despite himself. Hermione has a disapproving frown on her face at the sound of Snape’s spitting ire in the distance. Over her shoulder he can see Tom, picking out an unbruised apple from the fruit bowl with a pickiness he wouldn’t expect from someone who should have grown up in 1940s London.

“You done that essay yet?” Ron asks, “The one for McGonagall? I haven’t started it yet—”

“Isn’t it due tomorrow?”

“Exactly. Tomorrow—”

“When are you leaving?” Hermione interrupts, and Ron falls silent it’s as if someone has muted him. There’s a tenderness in Hermione’s gaze, hidden beneath a sharp, disapproving glare.

“She’s astute,” Tom reaches the table, “But then you did say she was smart… not as smart as me, of course—”

“Not all of us can be maniacal geniuses,” Hermione says, viciously. Her gaze flits to Harry and then off, words she wants to say going unsaid. Were they warnings, Harry wonders, or useless platitudes?

But really what would he achieve here by continuing the pretence? Going to school. Smiling and playing nice, like he’s a teenager who didn’t shape this world out of the ashes of a wish and a pile of bodies in the Great Hall.

_ Don’t be stupid _ , they’d say,  _ you don’t have to atone, you saved us all _ . And true, maybe they’re better for it. Maybe it was a good thing. Maybe he can rest, can accept the happiness that exists here in this place for him with his friends, his family—

But there is a restlessness under his skin and a fire that’s been lit and  _ not yet _ , he tells himself. He’s got things to do.

Stuff to steal…

“That hurt my feelings,” Tom is mocking Hermione.

“You’re a psychopath,” Ron looks like he wants to drag Hermione away from him, “You don’t  _ have _ feelings.”

“I have too many feelings,” Tom’s lip quirks, “I’m an empath.”

“So you’ve got an emotional bullshit metre, that’s not empathy,” Hermione corrects, and she’s brutally correct. Tom’s been using Harry as an emotional translator for the past however many years but the understanding is still lacking.

“That’s what Harry’s for,” Tom says, a possessive spark to his eye.

Hermione falls silent, eyes flickering to Harry and back to Tom, “Will you come back?” she asks Harry, totally blanking Tom, which is probably sensible. Otherwise he thinks Hermione is seconds away from throwing a handful of flames directly into his face.

“I don’t think Sirius would forgive me if I ditched him here with Snape,” Harry says.

“I don’t think I’ll forgive you if you leave me here with Malfoy,” Ron says.

“Don’t worry about Malfoy Jr,” Tom finishes his apple and helps himself to a biscuit off Harry’s plate, “He’s good at bowing, I remember that much.”

“That, that right there?” Hermione makes a pointed jab with a stick of carrot, almost as if it’s a wand, “That’s  _ foul _ , right, how much do you actually remember? How much are you  _ faking _ ?”

Harry had forgotten how comfortable he had become with his former enemy, forgotten that other people still need to adjust to the idea. It’s probably unhealthy, the way he has stopped seeing Voldemort when he looks at Tom, despite the number of personality quirks shared.

“I’m not faking it,” Tom looks unintimidated by the carrot, “Do you think I wanted to go through puberty twice?”

“Harry, don’t sneak out on us, Ron will be able to see it and we want to see you before you go. But right now, I’m going to eat my lunch in peace.”

Harry doesn’t argue, he should have known Tom and Hermione would come to fault with each other, their personalities are too similar, albeit at the opposite extreme of the moral spectrum. “You couldn’t play nice for one more day, huh?” he asks with a sigh.

“Why bother?” Tom shrugs, “I was a Dark Lord once, why bother hiding it? Why try and make them all feel safe?”

“There are times,” Harry says, eyeing up Tom with frustration, “That I remember that I hate you.”

“Of course you do,” Tom’s smirk is so damn smug, smile curling up languidly, like a content cat. Harry gets the feeling he’s quoting something. “I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit.”

*

There is a chill in the air, the beginning of autumn beginning to creep in. There are several wings of dormitories in various corners of the mansion, and there’s an odd mismatch of new double glazing of old glass panes that are yet to be replaced creating a dissonance of warm and cold air in pockets throughout the wing.

Tom doesn’t even bother sleeping. There’s no point, they’ll be out of this damn place soon. They’ve already spent too long here.

Tom has decided he  _ hates  _ it.

It’s a pale imitation of Hogwarts, a mockery of everything the magical castle used to be and it’s very, very dead. Devoid of magic, devoid of that presence that had made Hogwarts his home – he hates this building for even trying to be the same. He can’t wait to leave, back to the dingy apartment in London, the bustling market of mutants trading secrets and life skills, their blueprints and months’ worth of plans, the snatches of an empire still being seeded—

Harry’s pet Weasley is predictably waiting for them, arms crossed and leaning against a door frame. His lips are pressed together in a thin line and his gangly form lurches upright to block their exit. He ignores Tom as if he isn’t even there, gaze fixed on Harry.

“Your friends better not have told Dumbledore,” Tom warns Harry. A spike of amused indignation from Harry, and bitter regret and wistfulness from Weasley and behind the ginger--

“Of course not,” Granger is just behind Weasley in the dark of the corridor, “I don’t want to think about what would happen if they got in your way. But I make no promises for Sirius or Remus.”

“Hermione,” Harry sighs.

“We didn’t say anything,” Granger says before he can say anything more, “Nothing I say is going to make you change your mind, is it?” she sighs, not even needing an answer, “Just don’t do anything you’ll regret. Like Riddle,” she glares at Tom, “Especially Riddle.”

“I wasn’t sneaking out,” Harry says, although the complaint sounds flat. His emotions are flatlined in regret and determination that make for an interesting combination.

Ron rolls his eyes, “Mate,” he says, “No offence, but yeah, right.”

Harry’s emotions are soft. His friends too, blunted as they exchange looks with words Tom doesn’t understand, can’t interpret. He steps past them, down the corridor, aware that words are exchanged behind him as he moves out of earshot. The trust there is stupid, he thinks, the pair have been a risk already but Harry continues to let them close.

A second and Harry appears next to him, Granger still looking torn. “We didn’t tell Sirius, by the way,” Weasley adds, glancing back at Harry, “But you get to explain to him why you left without an explanation,” he turns to follow his girlfriend, vanishing down another corridor.

“Okay, let’s get out of here,” Harry says.

“Not telling your godfather?” Tom arches an eyebrow, “Risky, you  _ want  _ him hounding us out in London?”

“As opposed to telling him and then he stops us leaving?” Harry laughs, spinning around to look at Tom with a smile, “Yeah,  _ no _ . Now let’s go—oh  _ shit _ ,” he spins around and almost walks straight into the dark shape leaning in the doorway. Emotions muted with what once might have been occlumency, Tom steps forwards in alarm in case it’s Dumbledore but then the shadow moves.

“What have we here?” Snape sneers at them, “Sneaking out past curfew, what a  _ surprise _ .”

“Don’t do this,” Harry says, warning.

“Just tell him to go away,” Tom says, impatiently at the same time his vision shuts down on him. He swears, and reaches for Harry blindly, “Not funny.”

“You use your silvered words on me and Riddle will feel something a little more unpleasant than total sensory shut down,” Snape’s sneer is still audible to him. “I  _ told _ Dumbledore to keep an eye on you, but he puts far too much faith in the boy he turned into a martyr. It’s okay, I knew I just needed to watch the best friends and they’d lead me right to you. Sneaking out in the middle of the night, didn’t anyone tell you that’s not  _ polite _ , Potter?”

“Snape,” Harry acknowledges, warning lining every emotion, “Get out of the way.”

There is nothing but vindictive pleasure from Snape, Tom attempts to reach out for it, to  _ twist it _ , “I could. Or I could tell Dumbledore right now. The Order are in place to handle London, you two have no idea what you’re getting yourself in for.” A pause, a flare of what could be annoyance or fear, “Let alone playing games with the Dark Lord,” Snape adds, pausing warily, still unsure, “Amnesiac or not.”

Tom sinks mental claws into Snape at the same time the blindness purveying his senses spreads like the worse pins and needles he’s felt. He tenses, breathing shallow and fast. Harry’s emotions spike, radiating danger, “Let him go. Snape…”

“No,” emotion shutter closed, “No, I did not die for this, for you hare-brained idiot of a boy—”

“Let—” Harry stops the moment a pained hiss escapes Tom, paralysis creeping like a spider up his back, “Stop it, we’re not doing anything wrong! Just let us go!”

“What are you going to make me do, Potter? Shoot myself? Throw myself out a window?”

“Yeah, sure, go throw yourself out a window, nobody is going to miss you after all. My mom certainly didn’t in this life or the last,” Harry snaps, bitterness bloody between his teeth and anger ember hot.

It’s beautiful. It’s unintentional, Tom senses the moment the words sink in. Anger unchecked keeps the power in them, even when Harry doesn’t mean to and the realisation comes too late, regret like a flower in winter, slow to bloom.

The paralysis fades, he blinks black from his vision just in time to see Snape lurching for the nearest window.

Harry’s too slow to do anything, and even though ‘stop’ is a one syllable word it doesn’t come to his mouth as quickly as it should. It’s  _ glorious _ .

“No, don’t—” Harry attempts to course correct, a moment too late.

There is a crash of glass and Harry  _ flinches back _ , adrenaline spiking. A flash of vindictive satisfaction that could be Tom’s own or Harry, he can’t tell in moments like this, they’re too closely entwined emotional, physically, hand still clawed in Harry’s shoulder for stability. His heart is racing in his chest, Harry’s a reflection next to him.

“Well that’s subtle,” Tom says, a laugh beneath his voice.

Harry’s still all nerves and anxieties, regret like sour milk, “Shut up, we need to get out of here.”

There is a howl of “POTTER!” from below.

“He’ll be fine,” Tom attempts to be reassuring, but it still sounds a little too happy, “It’s only the first floor.” But their subtle sneak out is ruined before it begun, and Tom can already feel emotions spiking through the manor. He grabs Harry’s hand because this; running from the authorities?

This is like second nature to them.

This is their playground now, he thinks.

They run.

*

Harry’s heart is still stuttering over accidentally throwing Snape out of the window. Words hurt and words kill and Harry should have known not to start an argument with the man.

Too late now and they head for the best exit they’d cased a week earlier. It’s the quickest, should present the least problems, at least it should have had the various Order members not now been alerted to their exit. Tom senses someone down one corridor and their route is diverted very quickly. “Shacklebolt can track people, can’t he?” he curses. He grabs Harry’s arm, pulling the pair of them sideways off their intended route and into a dark, unlit corridor. Harry’s breathing hard and Tom’s close, a warm heart beating and smile curling at his lips, “And you really thought Dumbledore would just let us go,” he says, almost playfully.

A clunk, the creak of a door and Harry brings a finger to his lips in a ‘shhh’ motion. Footsteps that grow louder and then recede as the person takes a different route. Harry grabs Tom’s wrist, tugging them further down this wing of the manor, “They’re not our enemies, you know that?”

“No, but they’re a nuisance. Do you really want to justify yourself to them in this moment?”

Harry sighs because the answer to that is obvious. They’re adults in mind and still only teenagers in body, they have no right to be playing this game but they are anyway.

It’s time Dumbledore realises they’re viable pieces and he needs to work them into his calculations.

“Can you sense Kingsley?”

“It’s the shape changer I’m worried about,” Tom murmurs back, “She slips under my radar.”

“Kingsley has enhanced senses,” Harry points out.

“Then hush,” Tom says, pressing a finger to Harry’s lip. Harry stiffens, aware of how close they are, aware that they haven’t been this close since that moment in Dumbledore’s office. He bats Tom’s hand away, eyes wide and for a second they’re just there, silence in the shadows as they hold their breaths. Tom’s head turns, eyes mapping out emotions Harry can’t feel.

“Snape’s  _ pissed _ ,” he comments, rather gleefully, “They’re heading to the west wing.”

“Great, we go south. Guess the coast is clear,” Harry’s voice comes out a little strangled.

“Yeah,” Tom hums, “We could.” He’s still staring at Harry, like he’s a puzzle Tom doesn’t know the answer to. Fingers reach out, tracing Harry’s cheek, pausing against his racing pulse, “Why deny this?” Tom asks, “This connection between us?”

“I’m not,” Harry says, slightly flustered, “I’m waiting for the empath here to gain a little self-insight.”

“What’s  _ that  _ meant to mean?” Tom frowns, only half-offended, half-confused. “You’re a whirlwind of goddamn  _ colour _ , am I meant to figure out what cutesy little emotion you care about at any one point?”

 Harry pushes away from Tom down the corridor, the other boy slipping into step behind him. “Let’s just get out of here,” he says, “This isn’t the time for that.”

“No?” Tom laughs, “You keep saying that, you could just say ‘no’, you know that? But you don’t. Admit it.”

Harry stops, rounding on Tom, “This thing we have?” he snaps, frustrated, “It needs time. It needs you to understand what it is you want from… from  _ this _ . From  _ me _ . You’ve spent two lifetimes with me. One was spent attempting to kill each other. One of us succeeded. Now we’re operating a low key  _ budding crime syndicate _ in London because we’re both wanted by the government. And you… you’re  _ charming _ . You’re like that diary version of you I met; a genius  _ fucking  _ sociopath who plays the game and I don’t know what’s real and what’s not. And you know what, neither do you.”

He can see Tom trying to read that. Attempting to discern what Harry’s really feeling, how many conflicts are built into this jenga tower they’ve built between them. The temporary alliance turned permanent and set with concrete and Harry still feels like he doesn’t know if it’s going to fall over or not.

“That’s cute,” a gravelly voice interrupts them, “Very messed up, but cute.”

Moody is standing in the corridor. Quiet for a man with a peg leg, all he needs is an eyepatch and he’d be a great pirate, Harry thinks, hysterically. “Great job on lookout,” Harry snipes at Tom.

“Not my fault. You’re a goddamn emotional  _ hurricane _ , it’s a little distracting.”

 “Can it,” Moody says, “And come with me. Riddle don’t try anything. There’s an agreement--”

“There is,” Harry interrupted, “But it’s not Riddle you need to worry about. You heal, right? Great.  _ Stop them following us _ . Distract them. Divert them. Send them in a different direction. Go on now.”

It’s a quiet cold fury with which he watches the furious expression on Moody’s face slip slide to fear as he moves to step past them.

“How long will that hold?” Tom asks.

Harry shrugs. He doesn’t know, he’s too stressed to control how much power he puts into it. His power sits like a warm content cat at the base of his spine, like wings just begging to be stretched and he shoves it away. Like a heady drug addiction he doesn’t want.

(He knows realistically they’ll probably have to knock Moody out to break it, but can’t bring himself to think about that right now.)

“Look, I didn’t have to sign on to your doomed hero ship,” Tom snaps, “This mutant crusade… but I did anyway, because I need you. Your powers--”

“Yeah, my  _ powers _ ,” Harry snaps. “And the fact I push you. I don’t bend or bow, I tell you when you’re being an idiot. And this - talking about this now?  _ Not the time _ .”

“What do you want me to say?” Tom laughs, “I mean, it’s all a neurological con job anyway. It’s just chemicals, emotions have no  _ value _ ,” Tom sidesteps neatly into Harry’s way, dark eyes and a curious look as he drops his hands into Harry’s collar, pulling him closer. “This? Connection or not,  _ this _ is all just hormones anyway, synapses misfiring. It’s got no material value but  _ us _ ? This  _ partnership _ \--”

“Maybe it’s like magic,” Harry mocks, fully intending to step away and around Tom but only making it halfway there, words more a spitfire taunt than intended, too much warmth to them, too much  _ fight _ , “Y’know.  _ Not real _ .”

“This isn’t real then? Is this all still in your head? Maybe you’re insane. Maybe I did win after all.”

Harry can’t help the smug smile, “You didn’t win,” he says.

“Why not?”

“Because killing me?” he laughs, “That’s not a victory for you. Not anymore,” and he enjoys the way Tom’s eyes gleam at the challenge.

Harry wishes he didn’t feel this way about Tom Riddle. He’d love to blame it on the horcrux, on the soul connection, on prophecy or fate and maybe it is, in part. Because he can’t deny there aren’t days when it feels like there is something that tethers them. Like a red fate ribbon with two ends entangling them, his life is impossible to live without Tom Riddle influencing it in some way.

It’s impossible for a rope not to have two ends, a coin not to have two sides and for roads not to lead to two places and it is impossible to live forever.

Harry’s life remains defined by Tom Riddle one way or another, what’s the point in fighting it? They said to follow your dreams, but they forgot that nightmares are dreams too. Tom is all his nightmares wrapped in one pretty package.

He doesn’t have the strength to resist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A conversation that almost definitely took place:  
> “You’ve have Voldemort’s tongue in your mouth, right, so I’ve gotta ask.” A pause, more ominous than it should be, “Is it forked?”  
> “GINNY!” Ron looks horrified. Harry is torn between horror, embarrassment and laughter.]


End file.
